


Save The Last Dance For Me

by Lilith (Citrine)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Adult relationship, Age Difference, Angst, Cancer, Cannabis, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love & sex but not death, Romance, Terminal Illnesses, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Martha Hudson, friendship, love and romance:</p><p>He kissed her cheek again and his lips lingered for a fraction of a second longer than normal. “Good-night, Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>She sat back on the sofa when he’d gone and touched her hand to her cheek, just like a giddy girl. </p><p>There are things that you don’t wish for, things that you don’t ever let yourself think about.  Not even when you’re dying, least of all then when the cruel mirror shows you how old and ill you are. Youth is just an illusion, a flutter of butterfly wings in your soul, and there’s no point crying for the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well I know that this story isn't going to be to everyone's taste, but this little plot bunny skipped into my head and wouldn't go away until I wrote it down. 
> 
> Sherlock and Mrs Hudson shipped. The story includes a love scene, two love scenes actually (ie SEX) between two consenting adults of very different ages. If you don't like that premise then this isn't the story for you.
> 
> But if you do read it I hope that you like it. Comments are always welcome.

She still felt eighteen inside. Bopping the night away to Bill Haley and The Comets, rocking around the clock. Coffee bars and teddy boys. She’d adored Little Richard, having a crush on a black man wasn’t a thing to admit to in the 1950’s. Not even her Birmingham art school friends were that liberal.

It was a lifetime ago.

She was an old woman and there was something growing inside her, crushing her inside, but she still felt eighteen.

That was the cruellest part of all, not the cancer, the fact that she still felt so alive.

There wasn’t much pain, not yet. She knew from John’s face that there would be later on. Sherlock knew it too. They had taken her to see a private specialist.  A friend of John’s, mates rates, but still more than she could afford. Sherlock had paid the bill. He should have kept his money. There was nothing that the expensive consultant could do that the NHS couldn’t.

_A lifetime’s too short and a new one can’t be bought._

That had been the Beatles in the 1960’s. She had been married by then and what a mistake that had been.

It had all been so exciting at first, being Mrs Hudson with a shiny gold ring on her finger and a handsome husband. The people who had warned her that Henry Hudson was a bad lot were obviously wrong. He gave her a wonderful life, sports cars and foreign holidays, and the house in Richmond that was repossessed after eighteen months. It wasn’t Henry’s fault that he hadn’t paid the mortgage. The business was in trouble, but he hadn’t wanted to worry her and he certainly never meant to lash out at her that day. How many empty promises had he made over the years? No more violence, no more affairs and no more dodgy business dealings. Florida was supposed to be a fresh start, but Henry had soon gone back to his old ways. Finally he’d ended up getting executed for murder. She had given evidence against him in court. He would have killed her if he had got out. Only Sherlock had ensured his conviction and eventual execution. 

She literally owned him her life. Only something else had come along to threaten her without warning. She had thought that she was just tired and a bit run down. Then the doctor packed off to the hospital. Still she wasn’t one to complain. She had gone to all the clinic appointments by herself at first, insisting that she had no family or friends. There was her sister of course, but Muriel would only cry and fuss and she really didn’t feel up to looking after her.

Sherlock had realised that there was something wrong. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?

He and John had insisted on coming to the hospital with her after that. Sometimes both of them, occasionally just John, but he was working, so it usually fell to Sherlock to accompany her. He only ever complained about the hours spent in various waiting rooms when she got tired, never about the mind numbing boredom of it all.

Sherlock had been with her when that nice Indian consultant had told her that it was terminal.

Six months. Eight or nine if she was lucky.

In the taxi on the way home she rested her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you mind, dear?” she asked him quietly.

A muscle had twitched in his cheek. “Yes, I mind,” he said and she knew that he wasn’t talking about her using him as a pillow.

Both her boys had been very good to her, but she had never been quite as close to John as she was to Sherlock. John was more reserved. He never gave her a spontaneous hug or a peck on the cheek. The hospital asked her if she wanted to see a therapist. John thought that she should. Sherlock supported her when she refused.

“Talk to me,” Sherlock had said with that quick smile of his.

Then there was the wish list, you have to make one Muriel had said when she’d stopped being hysterical. Well, she had to be told sometime, best to get it over with.

Mrs Hudson thought about it, but she didn’t want to see the midnight sun or swim with dolphins. All the things she did want were impossibilities.

I wish that I hadn’t given up art school to marry Henry.

I wish that we had had children, but that was my fault. Henry always told me that it was my fault because I had that back-street abortion in 1957 when I was single and scared.

I wish that I didn’t have cancer.

I wish that I was eighteen again, dancing the night away with all my life before me.

Sherlock rapped lightly on the kitchen door. “Mrs Hudson?”

I wish that someone would call me Martha, even though it’s an ugly name that I’ve always hated.

And I wish that…

Mrs Hudson wiped her eyes on a tissue. “Come in, dear.”

Sherlock never bought her flowers or tried too hard to say the right thing.  He was the only one who didn’t treat her any differently and she loved him for it.

He carried a black bin bag, a heavy one by the look of it. “Can I put this in your freezer? It’s too big to go in the fridge upstairs.”

She frowned at the bag in his hand. “I suppose that it’s something disgusting?”

“Just some body parts.”

“Which is what I’ll be soon. Go on then, food poisoning’s the least of my worries.”

The sorrow was there in his eyes and he touched her shoulder as he passed her on his way to the freezer. When he had disposed of the bag he switched the kettle on and made tea for them both.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy,” Mrs Hudson said when he sat down opposite her.

Sherlock ignored that remark. “How are you?” he asked her.

“Well, the painkiller’s are still working so I’m lucky there, not that I know how much longer…I’m bloody terrified.”

The flat admission didn’t faze him out and he didn’t even flinch when she started to cry. Sherlock didn’t offer meaningless reassurances. He took her hand across the table and when she looked at him with utter misery in her eyes he gathered her up into his arms.

It was just a hug. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing sexual, but it was very pleasant. It was a long time since a man had held her close. She leant her head on his shirt front and closed her eyes. Sherlock felt safe and strong.

They stood there like that, neither moving nor speaking, until Mrs Hudson felt able to lift her head and face the world again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not usually so namby-pamby.”

“It’s all right.” Sherlock still held her hands in his. He bent his head and kissed her cheek.

“Muriel insisted that I make a list of all the things that I want to do, but I couldn’t think of a blessed thing.” She handed him the blank pad. “Isn’t that silly? Mind you I’m always like that if anyone asks me what I want for Christmas.”  It struck her with the force of a ten-ton truck. She would be dead by Christmas. “Oh, dear god…”

“Come and sit down.” Sherlock led her to the sofa. “Let’s think about this list of yours.”

Mrs Hudson didn’t want to think about all the things that she wished had been different about her life. It was far too late for regrets and yet Sherlock was being so kind and patient, she didn’t have the heart to let him down.

“There are things that I wish I had done differently, but it’s no use crying over spilt milk.” She squeezed his hand. He had lovely hands. “I don’t know that there’s anything I really want to do now.”

“Is there anywhere that you’d like to visit?”

Mrs Hudson thought about it. She didn’t feel up to lots of travelling, but she had always loved the sea. “I always liked Brighton. I suppose it would be nice to see it just once more.”

“We could take you.”

“No, not John, just us, that’s what I’d really like.”  Mrs Hudson wondered if she should have said that. She didn’t want to offend Sherlock or upset John. “Is that selfish of me?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock stood up. “We’ll go tomorrow if you’re well enough.” He kissed her cheek again and his lips lingered for a fraction of a second longer than normal. “Good-night, Mrs Hudson.”

She sat back on the sofa when he’d gone and touched her hand to her cheek, just like a giddy girl.

There are things that you don’t wish for, things that you don’t ever let yourself think about.  Not even when you’re dying, least of all then when the cruel mirror shows you how old and ill you are. Youth is just an illusion, a flutter of butterfly wings in your soul, and there’s no point crying for the moon.

*

Sherlock insisted that they got a taxi from the station down to the seafront and Mrs Hudson was secretly relieved that she didn’t have to walk that far.

They strolled along the promenade. Sherlock slowed his pace to match hers and offered her his arm when she started to flag.  The over decorated domes of the Brighton Pavilion were just visible in the distance. Sherlock followed the direction of her gaze.

“Do you want to visit the Pavilion?” he asked

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “I never was much of a one for history.”  She had always lived for today and now when the todays and tomorrows were so few she was determined to make the best of it. “I’d rather go on the pier.”

The Palace Pier was all sugar doughnuts frying in hot oil, brilliant pink candy floss and seaside rock.  Tacky souvenirs, amusement arcades and seagulls that perched screeching on the peeling white paintwork. There was a sense of freedom in strolling out over the choppy grey sea. Mrs Hudson found that there was a bit of a spring in her step. That she could smile at the silly slogans on the 'Made in China' t-shirts and the little boy racing around pretending to be a helicopter. She squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not too bored?”

“Not at all.” Sherlock covered her hand with his for a moment. “I like the company.”

They wandered down to the end of the pier, where sea met sky in a merging of bluish-grey water and air.  Mrs Hudson leant on the rail. Further down the bay she could see the wreck of the West Pier, long neglected and devastated by fire, slowly rotting into the waves.

“That was lovely when I was a girl,” she said. Mrs Hudson stole a sideways glance at Sherlock and some spark of devilment made her wonder if she could shock him. “I lost my virginity under the West Pier, in the middle of the afternoon with all the holiday makers milling about not ten feet away. I was only sixteen and my dad would have taken his belt to me if he’d ever found out what I’d done.”

Sherlock grinned. “But he didn’t find out?”

“No, he wanted to know where the bloody hell I’d been, so I told him that I’d been looking for seashells.” Mrs Hudson laughed. “Do you know I can’t even remember that boy’s name now? I know that he was tall and blonde, and I think that he worked in a car factory. And they say that they never forget your first. I must be getting senile.”

“Not you,” said Sherlock softly. “You’re as sharp as a knife.”

“Now there’s a compliment coming from you,” She ran her arm through his again. “Shall we go and get a cup of tea somewhere?”

Mrs Hudson was determined not to look back when they left the pier, but tears blurred her vision. She wiped her eyes quickly with her free hand and she was grateful when Sherlock pretended not to notice. 

They had lunch in one of the hotels that lined the seafront. Not that she had much appetite and she picked at her salad until the waiter came across to ask if there was anything wrong.

“No, nothing,” said Sherlock. He pushed his own virtually untouched plate to one side. “Would you like some coffee, Mrs Hudson?”

She asked for a cappuccino. Once the waiter had gone to get their orders she gave Sherlock a tentative smile. “Would you do something for me, would you call me Martha, just for today at least?”

“For as many days as you want, for as many days as you have left.”

It was said with too much sincerity for her to take offence at his bluntness. It was part of him, a part she like and admired. How many times had she wanted to tell someone exactly what she thought of them and bitten her tongue so as not to cause offence.

I wish I had offended more people.

“What’s so amusing?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh, I was just thinking that I should have been more outspoken.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being outspoken,” said Sherlock, but then he fell silent for a moment. “John tells me that I’m not always considerate of other people’s feelings. That I blunder in and point out all the things that they want to keep private and hidden, which doesn’t normally concern me in the slightest, but I wouldn’t want to distress or embarrass you.”

“Why on earth would you do that, dear? Say what you like to me, I don’t mind.”  Martha Hudson knew that was a rash invitation the instant the words were out of her mouth, but it was too late to take them back now.

“You might, when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say…assuming that I can actually say it.”

“I never known you to be at a loss for words.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”  It was all there, in his voice and his eyes, clear as sunlit crystal.

“And a last,” said Martha very quietly.

She rested her elbows on the white tablecloth. It was still Brighton, still Tuesday. She was still an old woman dying of cancer. Nothing had changed and yet everything had.

 This was absurd. Sherlock couldn’t possibly mean…and even if he did the whole idea was ludicrous, laughable, and rather pathetic. Like one of those silly middle-aged women who went on a package holiday and came back convinced that a young Adonis was madly in love with them. Only it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all.

“You could get any girl you wanted and a quite a lot of the boys as well,” she said. “In fact I’m not even sure if you actually…well, if you even like girls.”

“I like you, isn’t that enough?”

“There’s liking and there’s liking.” She touched Sherlock’s hand. “You don’t have to have sex with someone to prove that you care about them.” Then something sparked in her, more devilment from her wild youth. “Though of course it’s much more fun that way.” Martha clamped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have…”

Suddenly they were both laughing too hard to speak.

When they finally sobered up Martha realised that Sherlock was holding her hand across the table.  She looked down at their hands and was shocked to see her wrinkled fingers resting on his white skin. Martha didn’t feel old, but the harsh reality was staring her in the face.

“This is silly.” She pulled her hand away. “I think that waiter must have gone to Brazil for the coffee.”

“I could tell you exactly where he is and what he’s doing, but that isn’t of any consequent at the moment,” said Sherlock.  “We can take the next train home or we can stay until this evening or even until tomorrow if you wish.”

“If wishes were horses then beggars would ride, that’s what my granny used to say.” Martha Hudson remembered another saying from her youth; don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. She watched the incoming tide through the restaurant window. “I used to love Brighton at night, with all the red and gold lights sparkling on the sea. It would be lovely to see them just one more time.”

“We stay then.” Sherlock sounded happy and relieved. His smile lit up the room. “I’ll go and see if they’ve got a double room free for tonight.”

“A double…Oh, Sherlock, you can’t! Whatever will they think of us?” She didn’t know whether to be appalled or delighted.

Sherlock sprung to his feet. “Yes, I can and who cares what they think?”

“Well if they ask me anything I shall die of embarrassment.” A practical thought occurred to her. “Besides we didn’t bring anything with us for an overnight stay, not even a toothbrush.”

“I’m reliably informed that they have shops in Brighton.”

Indeed they did and she had money in the bank, and she couldn’t take it with her. It got to me fun after a while, buying whatever took her fancy. Even the glazed, bored expression on Sherlock’s face as he trailed around the department stores after her amused Martha Hudson. Only the awkward business of selecting a nightie flustered her. She really didn’t want to look like his grandmother and virgin white was definitely out, but dazzling pink pyjamas with kittens on them weren't really her style either.

“This one,” said Sherlock. The nightdress he had pulled off the rack was soft cream cotton with a narrow band of lace around the cuffs and the square neck.  Needless to say it was also in her size. “It’ll match your skin tones and the colour of your eyes.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Martha snatched the nightie off him and went to pay. She was well aware that she had gone the same colour as those kitten pyjamas.

They took a walk around the lanes after that. Row upon row of little shops selling beads, artwork, second hand books, black gothic lace gowns and hand-made crafts. When she got tired they stopped at a little café where the tables were set out on the pavement Italian style. Sherlock left her there for a few minutes while he went off on a mystery errand and she took the opportunity to take a couple of the painkillers the doctor had given her. It wasn’t bad, not yet, but she had started to hurt.

 Sherlock came back with a secret little smile playing around the corners of his mouth, but when she stood up she swayed and had to cling to his arm for support.

“I’m sorry.” She hated her old, weak body for letting her down.

“That’s all right.” Sherlock touched his mouth to hers, right there in the middle of the street where anyone could see them. “Time for a siesta I think.”

Sherlock already had the hotel room key, something for which Martha was profoundly grateful. She really didn’t feel up to braving the salacious curiosity of the young receptionist. They went straight up to the room in the lift.

The big, bold double bed brought her up short for a moment. What in god’s name were they doing?

“Just rest,” said Sherlock.

 Martha kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the bed. She was asleep within seconds.

There were shadows in the room when she woke up, but the first thing she saw was Sherlock, who sat on the end of the bed, next to her feet, with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them.

Martha smiled. “You look like an overgrown pixie.” She yawned. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About two and a half hours.”

She held her hand out to him. “Have you been sitting there all that time?”

Sherlock lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I shall miss you, Martha.”

“Oh, don’t…” Those could not possibly be tears in his eyes and yet they were. Martha sat up and he opened his arms for her. She pressed her face against his chest with the beat of his heart beneath her ear. “Don’t…”

She cried because she didn’t want to be old and ill, and because she didn’t want to leave him. And his face was wet against her shoulder. Even when her tears snuffled into silence Martha still held onto Sherlock. Neither of them moved for a long time and then he kissed the crown of her head.

Martha brushed her hand across his face. “What a silly pair we are.”

They exchanged sad, loving smiles.

Sherlock ran his hand over her hair, a feather light touch. “Are you hungry?”

She wasn’t, not particularly. “Well, we’d better go down to dinner if I want to show you off, but do you mind waiting while I have a quick shower and get changed into my glad rags first?”

Sherlock assured her that he had no objection to waiting. 

Nevertheless she tried to hurry up in the bathroom, but she was all fingers and thumbs. It took her four attempts to fasten the pearl buttons on the cuffs of her new navy blouse. Then she almost lost her earrings down the sink. Martha stood in front of the bathroom mirror to put her make-up on.  You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. That had been another saying of her granny’s, but she could do her damnedest.

Sherlock was just putting his mobile away when she came back into the bedroom.

Martha’s heart sank. “Anything important?” She braced herself for a bizarre investigation that would spirit him away from her.

“Just John. He wanted to know how you were. I told him that you were fine and that we’d booked into a hotel for the night.”

“Did he realise that you meant…” Her gaze drifted towards the double bed.

“I said hotel room singular, but John was late for a date with his dull girlfriend so I don’t think that he was quite listening.” Sherlock frowned. “Why do people miss the obvious so easily?”

“Sometimes I think it’s because it doesn’t fit in with their view of the world. It just wouldn’t occur to John that you and I might…well, that we might be more than friends. It’s probably just as well, I’d hate to cause a rift between you two.”

“It's no wonder that people reach all the wrong conclusions if they insist on bending the truth to fit in with all their preconceived notions,” said Sherlock with such indignation that she giggled.

“Seriously though, I don’t want there to be any unpleasantness between you and John.” She couldn’t go to her grave knowing that she had unwittingly destroyed the one real friendship that Sherlock had managed to sustain. And for what, an old woman’s vanity?  “Perhaps we should just…”

“No, we shouldn’t.” Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and slipped his arms around her waist.  “It’s nothing to do with John, absolutely none of his business and if he chooses to be narrow-minded that’s his problem not ours.  What exactly are we supposed to have done wrong anyway?”

“You honestly don’t see it, do you?” Martha rested the palms of her hands on his chest, smoothing imaginary creases out of his shirt. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m old enough to be your mother.” 

“That doesn’t matter. We wouldn’t be here if it did.”  Sherlock kissed her forehead. “I don’t usually bother much about people or relationships and I expect I’ll say all the wrong things and do all wrong things, but I do want this time with you.”

Martha sighed. “All my life I’ve put other people first, my husband, my family and my friends. I’ve never asked for much for myself.” She bit back the stupid, self-pitying tears that threatened to overwhelm her. “Perhaps I ought to put a stop to this, to us, but I’m not going to.”

“Good.” Sherlock looked genuinely relieved. “I’d be very sorry if you did.”

“So would I.” Martha straightened the collar of his blue shirt. She was glad that he hadn’t worn a black shirt with his expensive black suit. He would have looked as if he were dressed for her funeral. “I like this colour on you.”

“Thanks.”

He looked suddenly bashful and she stood up on her toes to kiss his lips, taking the initiative for the first time.  “Well, where’s this dinner that you promised me?”

Sherlock offered her his arm. “I’ve booked a table for us downstairs.”

*

The hotel dining room was similar to many others that Martha had seen over the years, reminiscent of the days when she used to attend business functions with Henry on both sides of the Atlantic.  There were glittering chandeliers, doubtless glass masquerading as crystal, round tables with crisp white tablecloths set around a central dance floor like swirls of icing on a birthday cake. It was tasteful and pleasant, a touch pretentious, but not so grand as to be intimidating.

They were drawing quite enough curious and speculative glances as it was, which was entirely their own fault. If they had been a little more circumspect everyone would have assumed that Sherlock was wining and dining his maiden aunt, but arm-in-arm had turned to hand-in-hand by the time they reached their table. Martha saw the waiter’s eyes flick down to their joined hands and quickly away again.

Of course Sherlock noticed as well and the moment they were seated at the table he leant across and gave her a quick kiss before he accepted the menus from the waiter. That set the tone for the rest of the evening. They kissed gently and held hands and moved their chairs closer together. No one could mistake them for anything other than a couple enjoying an evening out together.

At first Martha wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry or hide under the table. The couple at the next table but one seemed to assume that they were both deaf, since they were making loud, snide comments punctuated by much drunken laughter.

 “Well, I think it’s a bit pervy,” the blonde woman declared. “What does a man like that want with a scrawny old cow like her anyway?”

That wounded. Martha saw Sherlock’s eyes darken with fury and she grabbed his arm. “No wait.” She had heard the inflexion on ‘a man like that’, now there was a touch of the green-eyed monster if she wasn’t mistaken. Martha raised her voice deliberately. “Objective truth remember? I am old and scrawny, but I’ve still managed to pull the best looking fella in the room.”

She started to enjoy herself after that and to take a wicked delight in being outrageous. Martha gave up on the white wine she had never much liked and asked Sherlock to get her a rum and coke from the bar.

“That was always my poison,” she said, “and bring me some cigarettes as well, will you?”

Sherlock grinned. “Smoking’s bad for you.”

“That’s why you’re not having any,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Martha folded her arms on the table still smiling to herself. She felt young tonight, young and carefree. Martha was well aware that it wouldn’t last; eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.  But tonight was hers, theirs, and she fully intended to have the best night of her life.

It had been nearly twenty years since she last smoked a cigarette and she had forgotten that now days you had to go outside to smoke. There was a salt scented breeze blowing in off the sea. They had to stand behind a concrete pillar on the terrace to light their cigarettes without the match blowing out. Martha didn’t comment when Sherlock took one for himself. She wasn’t his mother.

Brighton glistened and sparkled under a crisp, clear sky.

They smoked in silence and Sherlock put his arm around her when she shivered.

Martha rested her head on his shoulder. She took a long, slow puff on her cigarette. “I should have a cigarette holder, like Bette Davies in all those 1940’s films, a wealthy old woman with her gorgeous gigolo.”

Sherlock laughed. “Are you happy, Martha?”

“Oh, yes.”

They wandered back into the dining room where the tables had been cleared and a band was just about to strike up. For a time they just sat and listened to the band.  Martha watched the couples swaying to the music, once she would have thought it too slow to be enjoyable, but she liked the soft, romantic melodies now.

“I learnt to waltz for Henry’s dreary business dinners, but I was never very good at it.”

Sherlock stood up and held out his hand. “Let’s see how good you are.”

“I’ve got two left feet,” Martha warned him, but the temptation was too much to resist.

She was only a little woman, but she kept her head up and her back straight as they walked out onto the dance floor. Sherlock was an excellent dancer. He moved with a natural grace that made it easy for her to follow where he led.  She didn’t even step on his toes when they twirled around the corners.

The music ended.  Sherlock smiled at her. “Would you like another dance?”

“No.” It had been too perfect, their first and last dance. She had no wish to follow it with another, especially not as the music had changed to a quickstep that she wasn’t sure she could keep up with. “I wouldn’t say no to another rum and coke though.”

Sherlock took her hand for the short walk to the hotel bar and her heart beat a little faster. It was getting late and Martha was getting nervous. Could she really go through with this? It was ridiculous to even contemplate it at her age.  She stole a glance at Sherlock’s profile while they waited to be served at the bar. Earlier on, up in their hotel room, she had said that she wasn’t going to put a stop to this madness and he had said good, that he was glad.

So do it. Go for it. You only live once.

“Sherlock, let’s forget about the drink.”

He looked at her with those beautiful eyes of his. “Are you sure, Martha?”

“Yes, love, I’m sure.”

His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. Sherlock brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. He lowered his head and kissed her softly, as if she were delicate porcelain, breakable and precious. Martha treasured the kiss for a moment and then she deepened it, opening her month under his.

When they separated it was Sherlock who was blushing. Martha thought that it was enchanting. She clasped his hand and they headed for the lift.

*

“This is so naughty.” Martha giggled. “We’ll set the smoke alarm off in a minute.”  The white smoke spiralled towards the ceiling and the unmistakable scent of cannabis filled the air.

“It’s only the same stuff as in your so-called herbal soothers and I disabled the alarm while you were in the bathroom.”  Sherlock handed the reefer back to her and adjusted the pillow behind his head.

They were sitting up in bed, she in her cream nightie and he in, well, not a lot actually.  By the time she came out of the bathroom he had already undressed and climbed into bed.  So here she was, in bed with a naked young man. It felt odd and wonderfully wicked. Martha giggled again and drew the smoke deep into her lungs.

“Did you get this in the lanes?” She passed the slender reefer back to him.

“Yes, from that shop with the plastic dragon outside. It was quite easy to make an under the counter purchase.”  Sherlock blew a smoke ring up towards the ceiling.

Martha watched it drift away and dissolve. “Perhaps you could get some more before we leave, for me I mean, for when things…get difficult.”

“I’ll get it for you.” Sherlock offered her the reefer. “Do you want any more now?”

“No, I’ve had enough.”

They had smoked barely half of it between them. The combination of reefer and rum had made her little giggly, but she wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t stoned, and she didn’t want to be either. Martha watched Sherlock stub the reefer out in a hotel saucer.  She hadn’t felt this nervous on her wedding night or as a sixteen year old under the pier with sand in her knickers.

They had left a single lamp burning on the far side of the room. Martha had no wish to have time’s flaws illuminated by the harsh cruelty of the overhead lights, but she didn’t want to be smothered in darkness either.

Darkness beckoned, black and eternal.

Martha felt a choking bitter resentment, an impotent rage at the fates which had brought her to old age and death, while Sherlock was still a young man, full of energy and vigour. They should have had a lifetime together. She thought of Mr Desai at the paper shop said that eternity was a cycle of death and rebirth.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” She asked Sherlock, even though she knew that he didn’t.

“No,” he said softly.

Martha knew that he believed that all knowledge, all awareness ended when the brain died. That there was no god. No afterlife. No second chance. She suspected that he was right. Martha shivered. She pressed her forehead against his bare shoulder and was comforted a little when his arms encircled her.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“I’m afraid of dying.”

“I know that you are.” Sherlock kissed her hair and rocked her gently. He didn’t tell her that it would be all right or that there was nothing to be afraid of. Those kinds of platitudes were for other people.

Martha spread her fingers out on his chest, over the strong, steady beat of his heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone all gloomy on you, haven’t I?”

“You’ve reason enough to be sad.” Sherlock hugged her tightly. “I only wish that there was something I could do for you.”

“There isn’t, only this, only now.”  Martha smiled at him. “And this is more than I ever dreamt of.”

“I…I may disappoint you. I’m not very good at this sort of thing…relationships, sex.”

His anxiety melted her heart and gave her courage. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” Martha interlaced her fingers with his. “It is getting chilly in here. Why don’t we settle down for the night?”

They lay on their sides facing one another and Sherlock pulled the bedclothes up around her shoulders.

“You can hear the sea,” Martha said after a few moments.

“As well as the drunks coming out of the casino.”

Someone was singing ‘Danny Boy’ loudly and badly out of tune.

Martha laughed. “That one will have a headache tomorrow.”

Sherlock kissed her mouth and she clasped the back of his head, sliding her fingers into his hair and rubbing his scalp. Martha could feel the heat of his hand on her back through the thin cotton nightdress. She opened her mouth under his and felt the hesitant slide of his tongue over her teeth.

She giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock lifted his head so that he could look down into her face.

“At least I’ve still got my own teeth.” She grinned up at him. “Not bad for a scrawny old cow, hum?”

“Not bad at all,” said Sherlock with such warmth that she blushed.

“Oh, stop it you!” She put her thin arms around his neck and pulled him down into another kiss.

They kissed for a while longer. Martha traced the stubble line on his jaw with her lips. When his hand settled over the curve of her breast she felt no shame, only pleasure. His fingers traced over her nightie, mapping her outline and she squealed when he found a ticklish spot.

Sherlock chuckled. His lips were moist against her throat. She could smell his expensive aftershave and the ozone of the sea had settled in his hair. Greatly daring she flicked her fingers across his left nipple. She smiled and kissed his pale shoulder when he made a little noise of appreciation.

His fist closed over a handful of cotton on her hip. “Can I?”

She froze for a heartbeat.  “Yes, love.”  

Sherlock kissed her again.  He drew her head down onto his shoulder. Martha closed her eyes.  She felt his hand move under the bedcovers. He touched the top of her thigh, lifting her nightie and bundling it up around her waist. There was a hollow, fluttery feeling in her abdomen, a mingling of nervousness and desire. 

Sherlock’s hand slipped between her legs, curved over her and simply rested there.  “Are you all right, Martha?” he whispered.

She nodded and felt his shoulder, soft skin over hard bone, move beneath her cheek.  “Never better.”

Sherlock breathed out, a huff of laughter. He flexed his fingers and squeezed her gently. Martha closed her legs around his hand. She tensed her thigh muscles and then relaxed them again. “Oh…” After a few moments she reached down and repositioned his hand slightly. “There, love, just there…Oh, that’s nice…”

Sherlock shifted restlessly beside her. He gave a little moan and pressed himself against her hip. “Martha…”

She could feel how hard he was, how aroused because of her, which was absurd, wonderful and wildly thrilling. Martha curled her hand around him.  “It’s a long time since I’ve held one of these,” she whispered in his ear.  

She slid her hand up and down his length and he moaned again. His fingers juddered against her. “Oh, fuck!”

“I don’t seem to have lost my touch though,” she added wickedly.

Sherlock’s laugh turned into a gasp. He moved up and over her. Martha parted her thighs for him, utterly shameless now.

Sherlock hesitated and she saw the doubt, the uncertainty, cloud over the lust in his eyes.

Martha felt her heart break. “It’s all right.” She touched his face. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He turned his head and kissed her palm. Sherlock closed his eyes. “It’s just that I…obviously, theoretically, I understand the mechanics, but I haven’t…”

“Hush, it’s all right.” Martha hugged him. She hadn’t realised or rather she hadn't listened. Sherlock had told her, hadn’t he? There’s a first time for everything, he had said. 

“Don’t look so worried. I think I can just about remember how it all works.”

Sherlock gave a half-laugh, warm and throaty against her neck. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said seriously.

“You won’t, love.”  Martha wriggled down on the pillows, adjusting the angle between them.  She reached for him and found that he was still hard. They kissed again, an affirmation and a reassurance.  She whimpered and lifted her hips when his tongue delved into her mouth. Martha guided him to where he needed to be and then let her head fall back onto the pillow. Sherlock didn’t hesitate this time. Martha felt her body stretch and open, and she clung to him.

Sherlock’s attempt to take it slowly and gently soon floundered.  He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can’t…”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind…Oh, love…”  Martha lifted her hips to meet his short, erratic thrusts. She didn’t want to be antique glass, fragile and breakable. She wanted to be a woman.  “That’s nice. That’s good…” She whimpered, feeling the delicious tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her. “Please don’t stop.”

He groaned. “Can’t stop…oh fuck…”

She shuddered. “Oh, Sherlock…oh, god…”

Martha came. Her body spasmed around him. Sherlock thrust into her and froze, and a moment later she felt the hot pulse of his life within her.

Perhaps she ought to have felt shy afterwards, awkward and thoroughly ashamed of herself, but she didn’t.  She curled up beside Sherlock with her head on his chest. He kissed her tenderly and stroked her hair. Martha touched her lips to his skin just above his heart and neither of them felt the need to say anything at all.

*

It was daylight when she woke up, 06.26 by the clock on the bedside table. Sherlock was asleep beside her, sprawled on his stomach.  Martha studied for him a long moment and she sat up with a sigh. She managed to slip out of bed and into the loo without disturbing him. On the way back to bed she stopped long enough to swallow her pills. Not that the pain was bad at the moment, but she didn’t want it to get bad, not this morning.

The mattress dipped as she got back into bed.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock murmured.

“Yes.” She kissed his temple. “Go back to sleep.”

Martha didn’t want to sleep again. She wanted to savour this, to store it up in her memory, something to hold onto when the bad days came.  Martha brushed a stray curl back off Sherlock’s forehead and smiled when it promptly fell forward again.  He would be all right. He had to be.

At least there would be no question mark over his future at 221B. It had been that phone call from Muriel that had galvanised her into action. Muriel’s husband wanted to know what sort of legal agreement her tenants had, which translated into how soon after her death could he kick them out, put the house on the market and retire to Spain on the proceeds.  Martha had gone to see her lawyer that same afternoon. She made one straightforward amendment to her will. Sherlock inherited the house.  That had been three weeks ago and Sherlock knew nothing about it. He would find out after she had gone. As would Muriel who would never believe that she hadn’t acted out of malice, but it wasn’t spite.

It wasn’t spite at all.

Martha draped her arm over Sherlock and rested her head on his back. It was cosy and warm snuggled up to him.

After a while he stretched, tensing his muscles before he relaxed with a sigh. Sherlock repeated the motion a second time and then a third. Martha smiled lovingly when he made a little noise deep in his throat and pressed down into the mattress.  She had been married for enough years to know the condition most men woke up in.

Martha kissed his shoulder blade. “I’m too old for all this,” she whispered laughingly.

She managed to wriggle her hand in between him and the mattress.  He gave a little grunt of relief and ground his erection into her palm. Martha let him rub himself against her for a couple of minutes, but her fingers were being squashed and the angle had started to make her wrist ache.

She pushed at his shoulder. “Turn over for me, love.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back. He woke up properly as he did so and blushed when he realised exactly what was happening.  

Martha wondered if she could make him blush some more. She hesitated for a second. It was daylight. There were no shadows to hide in now.  While she was still thinking about it Sherlock put his arm around her neck and drew her down for a kiss.

They kissed lazily until she felt his hips hitch against her. Then she sat back on her heels, letting the bedcovers fall haphazardly to one side.  Her nightie was crumpled up around the tops of her thighs. He was nice to look at, attractive, appealing, especially with that look of bemused passion on his face.

“Martha?” Sherlock had guessed her intention of course. He wasn’t that naïve, but he looked as if he couldn’t quite believe that she intended to go through with it.

She smiled. “I used to be good at this.”

Martha bent over him. She ignored the ache of age in her spine.  Martha kissed the exposed tip of his erection.

He jumped violently. “Oh, god!”

She giggled and did it again, licking him before she slid her mouth down over him. His hips came up off the bed and he moaned loudly.  Martha put one hand on his abdomen and cupped the other gently around his testicles. This was another first and she wanted to make it special for him.  She swirled her tongue over him and he groaned again, drawing his legs up at the knee. Martha pushed the one nearest to her down again, out of her way. She was so absorbed in what she was doing that it made her jump when his hand snaked over her thigh and down between her legs. Sherlock didn’t ask for permission this time. He simply rubbed her gently and then eased his fingers up into her. She gasped and bore down onto his hand.

Martha lifted her head. “Stop it, you’re distracting me.”

Sherlock laughed. “Are you complaining?”

“You’re a cheeky devil.” She rocked on his fingers, pressing her damp thighs together. “Now are going to let me get on with it?”

“No.” Sherlock brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “It’s heavenly, like nothing I’ve ever felt before, but I want you.”

Her insides clenched. “I’m nothing special. I –“

“Please, Martha.” His eyes were black with lust. “I want to fuck you.”

It wasn’t just physical. His words touched something deep inside her. Always remembered. Never forgotten. 

Martha felt tears sting in her eyes. “Whatever you want, love.”

She straddled over him. Martha felt the strength of his muscles under her legs and the coarse tickle of the hairs on his thighs.  She knelt up and winced when a sudden sharp pain crunched in her left knee.

Sherlock held her waist to steady her. “Are you okay?”

She grimaced. “Just my old bones giving me gip.”

Sherlock sat up in one neat fluid motion. He pulled her against his chest, trapping his erection between their bodies. “Lean on me.”

“I will.” She bent her head and kissed his mouth.

It was more than one kiss. It was a litany of them, falling softly and then burning with incandescent fire.  

Sherlock tipped his head back and she saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He reached for the dainty buttons on her nightie.

Martha grabbed his hand. “No, there’s no need. I can just lift it up out of the way.”

Sherlock slid his hand out from under hers. “Take it off.”

“Don’t be silly.” She couldn’t do this, not in daylight.

“No one will see.”  His fingers carded through her hair.

Martha flushed. “You’ll see.” And he was the only one that mattered.

“That’s the idea.” Sherlock laughed breathlessly. “Please, Martha.”

That phrase, whispered in that deep lusty baritone would get her to agree to just about anything.  Well, in for a penny in for a pound.  Martha reached up and pulled the crumpled nightie over her head. 

He grinned and she flushed with embarrassment under his intense scrutiny.  Sherlock touched her bare breast and rolled the hard peak of her nipple between his fingers. His erection jumped between and he moaned.  Martha clenched her pelvic muscles and gave in to the ache inside her.

“Come on then, love, fuck me.”

Sherlock drew his breath in sharply. “Say it again.”

She laughed, as happy as she had ever been. “Fuck me.”

“Oh god…”

He urged her up and then down. Martha felt the wet tip of his erection bump between her thighs and then he was inside her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and put her lips to his ear, whispering all the obscenities she remembered from her misspent youth. 

It didn’t take much to splinter the broken shards of his control. Sherlock pounded into her, rolling her over and onto her back so that he could thrust even harder. Martha’s body clenched and shuddered, soaring towards orgasm and she felt immortal in that moment.

*

They were behaving like a couple of teenagers, kissing and cuddling on the train.  Sherlock had wrapped both his arms and his coat around her so that she wouldn’t be cold. She snuggled up to him and he tilted her chin up for another kiss.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the scandalised expression on the face of the woman across the aisle.  Martha smiled. She hadn’t had this much fun for years.

Martha rested her head on his shoulder. The rain lashed the carriage window in almost horizontal stripes. They were going so fast. Forty-five minutes from Brighton to London Victoria. She wished that the journey were longer, but it wasn’t. Martha looked at her watch. They would be there soon. It was time for reality to reassert its self.

“I think that we’ve both gone a little mad this past day,” said Martha.

Sherlock held her close to him.  “Is it anyone’s business but ours if we have?”

“No, but it’s time to stop, love.” She sighed. “Time for me to stop calling you love and time for you to start calling me Mrs Hudson again.”

“I prefer Martha.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Plato’s allegory of the cave; prisoners chained in a cave facing a wall on which they see the leaping shadows from the fire. Knowing no better they mistake them for reality and are quite content in their captivity. But once a man is freed he sees the shadows for the illusions that they are and he can’t go back in the cave.” Sherlock twisted around in his seat, so that he was looking into her face. “Neither can we, Martha.”

“There’ll come a time, perhaps very soon, when I’ll be too ill and too tired to want anything except…”

“Except what?”

Martha shook her head. “Nothing, love.” Nothing that she should burden him with, perhaps she ought to go away when things got bad, to a hospital or a hospice. The thought filled her with dread. She wanted to stay at home. She wanted to stay with him.

“Please don’t cry.” Sherlock kissed her tear wet cheek. “Except what?”

Martha fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. “A little warmth, a little comfort and your arms around me when it hurts too much or when I’m scared out of my mind.”

Sherlock buried his face in her hair and she felt him tremble. “All right,” he said simply.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Martha closed her eyes and nestled into his arms.  She remembered how they had danced and how they had made love. A stubborn spark of life flared in her.

It wasn’t quite over yet.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Martha Hudson, friendship, love and romance continued: Once they return to Baker Street they have to deal with other people's reactions to their deepening relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2? How did this get to be a story that has chapters? :)
> 
> Once again there's a love/sex scene as well as rather a lot of romance between two adults of vastly different ages. If that doesn't appeal then this really isn't the story for you.
> 
> If you do read it I hope you enjoy it. Comments are always welcome.
> 
> Chapter 2 - edited 2nd November 2012 to remove one short scene I wasn't happy with.

She wasn’t going to cry.

Martha Hudson bit her lower lip and took a deep quivering breath. She wasn’t going to cry.

The argument raged on upstairs. Sherlock and John ripping their friendship to shreds with vicious words.  She had been afraid that this might happen and she felt bruised by it.

Martha sat down on the stairs.  She was exhausted and there was a sharp pain in her lower back.  Her medication was in her handbag and her handbag was on the kitchen worktop. Martha knew that she ought to go and get her pills, but it was just too much trouble.

Once she had got over her initial embarrassment she had enjoyed scandalising strangers in the hotel and on the train back to London.  All her joy had vanished the moment John had looked at them as if they were loathsome.

He had come downstairs just as Sherlock was twirling her around the hallway.  

“What are you two up to?”  John had asked cheerfully.

Then Sherlock had kissed her, full on the mouth and everything had changed.  John had been dumfounded and then utterly appalled.

God, what a bloody mess.

Perhaps they should have broken it to John gently, but she had been so happy, buoyed up by Sherlock’s enthusiasm.  Well, there was no fool like an old fool.  Okay, so she hadn’t expected that lightening quick kiss, but it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. It was hers. It was ludicrous, a woman of her age getting involved with a man in his thirties. If she had been forty years younger John might even have been happy for them. 

Not that it was any of John’s bloody business.

Martha grabbed the bannister and pulled herself upright.  It was time to put a stop to all this nonsense.  Her slippered feet made no noise on the stairs.  As she climbed upwards random words and phrases assaulted her ears.

“…I know how manipulative you can be. I’ve seen you turn on the charm and…” That was John in a white fury. “Well, did you?”

“Did I what?” demanded Sherlock. 

“Did you take Mrs Hudson down to Brighton with the intention of getting off with her?”

“Yes, I did.”

Sherlock’s unequivocal reply made Martha wince.  It made him sound so cold, so calculating and it hadn’t been like that at all. He had been so gentle with her and so unsure of himself at times. Only Sherlock was too proud and too private to explain. He would rather let John think the worse of him. Well, she wouldn’t. She was going to give John Watson a piece of her mind, only his next words brought her up short.

“Christ, Sherlock, she’s an old woman, a sick woman. Have you got any idea how disgusting that sounds? And if the answer’s no then you should see someone, a psychiatrist or a councillor, because you really do need help.”

Martha wrapped her arms around herself.  Was she really that repulsive? She supposed that she was, to John and probably to most men under seventy, but Sherlock had seen her differently. Now he was being castigated for it. It wasn’t bloody fair. 

“What I need is for you to keep your pathetic, bigoted opinions to yourself,” said Sherlock. 

Martha had heard that quiet, deadly rage in his voice before, but never directed at John.  This was going to destroy everything. 

“Most normal people would share my opinion,” said John. “There are boundaries that you just don’t cross.  It’s immoral at best and exploitative at worse.”

Exploitative. Martha didn’t like that word at all. It was offensive.  It made her sound as if she was a child in an abusive relationship or as if she had completely lost her mind.

Sherlock didn’t like it either.  “I don’t give a damn about the opinions of normal people with their little tram track lives.  Play normal if you want to, John, play outraged and indignant, but do not try to meddle in my relationship with Martha.”

“You wouldn’t recognise a real honest to goodness relationship if it jumped up and slapped you in the face! A proper relationship requires all those messy emotions that you’re always so cynical about. It’s not just about getting rid of an ache in your balls.”

“Is that what you tell all your girlfriends when you’re trying to get off with them?” demanded Sherlock. “Do you mind if I use it next time I need a chat up line?”

“What the hell would you know about chat up lines? You’ve never even been on a date.” John went quiet for a minute and Martha could almost hear the wheels turning around in his head.  “And you’d never had sex, had you, not before you and Mrs…not before yesterday? God, it’s no wonder that you’re so –“

Martha pushed the living room door open and John stopped in mid-sentence.

“It’s no wonder that you’re so absolutely desperate to get your leg over that anything looks good, even a raddled old woman like me,” said Martha. “Isn’t that right, John?”

John swallowed heavily. The way he always did when he was nervous. “Look, Mrs Hudson, I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, you did. That’s exactly what you meant.” Martha saw Sherlock move towards her and she shook her head. If he was kind to her she’d break down and she was not going to bloody well cry.  “I...I don’t think I want to discuss this…I’m going back downstairs.”

She made it out onto the landing before the tears started to fall.

*

Martha heard Sherlock’s footsteps in the hallway so the rap on her kitchen door came as no surprise. She emptied the glass of water down the sink and shoved her pills back into her bag. There was no need for him to know how badly she was hurting.

“Come in.” She tried to smile for him. “You don’t have to knock.”

“You’ve been crying,” he said. “John shouldn’t have upset you like that.”  Sherlock brushed a stray strand of hair back off her face. “I told him that it wasn’t because I couldn’t get anyone else, that I chose you.”

“Wasn’t that a silly thing to do?” Martha trembled on the verge of fresh tears. “Why me, love? You could do so much better, so why lumber yourself with a sick old woman? “

“I like you,” Sherlock said simply. “You’re part of my life and I suppose that I’ve taken that, taken you, for granted until now. I hate the fact that you’ve got cancer because I don’t want anyone or anything to ever hurt you.”  He looked down into her upturned face with infinite compassion in his eyes. “You’re in pain now and I wish that I could take it away, but I can’t. All I can do is say stupid, inane things because I get all sentimental over you and I’m never like that. It feels strange. I feel strange.  Yet I don’t want this – us – to stop. Am I making any sense at all?”

“Yes, you are.” Martha stroked his cheek. “But you might still be better off with someone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” said Sherlock firmly. “You’re always so smart, so neat and so feisty. I like the way you look and I enjoyed having sex with you.”

Martha was both touched and amused by his candour. “I noticed.”

“It’s just that I’ve never been that bothered, despite what John said…almost said …it’s never been anything that I couldn’t…deal with myself.” 

“Old widow ladies do that as well,” confessed Martha. She didn’t want him to be alone in his embarrassment, but his wide-eyed surprise made her smile. “But not after a day like today, do you mind if we say good-night now?”

His face fell. “Can’t I stay with you?”

“I’m very tired, Sherlock.”

He kissed her forehead. “I know, but even I have to sleep sometimes.”

Martha was sorely tempted to yield to his softly spoken entreaty. Only the past twenty-four hours had been an emotional roller-coaster and she needed time to think.  “Not with me, love, not tonight. It’s too much, too soon.  I think that we both need a bit of a breathing space, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly.  He kissed her tenderly. “Good-night, Martha.”

She felt bereft when he’d gone, which was foolish when she was the one who had sent him away.

Martha made a very half-hearted attempt to tidy the kitchen and then she went through into the living room. It was dark now, but during the day the room was a suntrap, light and airy.  It was a little cluttered by modern standards and a bit chintzy, but she like a splash of colour about the place. It cheered things up.  Martha pulled the curtains over the picture windows. She wondered who would live in her home in the years to come and if they would love it as much as she did.

Martha smiled sadly and straightened the already neat cushions on the sofa. Then she clicked off the lamp and went to get ready for bed.

It was only ten-thirty when she crawled in between the cold sheets, but she was worn out.  Martha lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. A mad fling was one thing, but could she really sustain a relationship with Sherlock?  She wasn’t sure that she had the energy for a start.  And Sherlock had his work which was often all consuming. How much time would he have for her when he was immersed in some complex problem?  Yet he had insisted that he didn’t want their fledging relationship to end.  

Martha didn’t remember falling asleep, but it was twenty-past twelve when she woke up for the first time. The bedcovers had slipped down. She pulled them up and turned over to face the window. It was a couple of minutes after one o’clock when she woke up again.  The temperature had dropped and she shivered under the blankets.  Martha touched the empty pillow next to her. She missed him. After just a single night together she missed Sherlock’s warmth and his company.

At two in the morning she gave up trying to sleep. She got up and put the kettle on.  Martha tied her dressing gown around her waist and wandered out into the hallway. There was still a light on upstairs, a thin electric glow just visible under the living room door.  It wouldn’t be John.  He had work tomorrow and it was Sherlock who was the night owl.  Anticipation made her heart beat a little faster as she made her way upstairs. Oh, this was silly, silly and delightful.  

Sherlock sat at the desk with his laptop in front of him. He looked up as Martha came into the room. “I thought I heard the fourth stair creak.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She sat in the armchair next to the fireplace. “Don’t let me disturb you though, you just carry on with whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Those twins murders…” Sherlock frowned at the screen. “Just give me five minutes.”

“Take as long as you need.” Martha settled more comfortably into the armchair.  She could hear the traffic on Baker Street and the Marylebone Road. London was never silent, never still.  Yet it still felt peaceful, companionable, to sit there quietly with Sherlock just across the room.

She yawned and stretched. Now really wasn’t the time to fall asleep.  “Tea?” she asked.

“Mmm, coffee please.”

Martha padded into the kitchen and made coffee for them both.  She put Sherlock’s down next to him. There was a photo of a row of semi-detached houses displayed on his laptop.

“You’ve been staring that picture for the past ten minutes. Is it really that interesting?”

 “Unfortunately not interesting at all.” Sherlock switched off the screen. “There’s nothing missing and I was sure that there would be.”

“Try again tomorrow.” Martha stroked his hair. “You look tired.”

Sherlock put his arms around her waist.  He rested his head on her breast.  “I am tired, but I didn’t want to sleep without you.”

“I kept waking up every few minutes, but I didn’t want us to rush into anything.” Martha chuckled. “Not that we haven’t already. I suppose that I shouldn’t have let you have your wicked way with me on our first date if I wanted to take things slowly, but I don’t have time for a long drawn out courtship. Now there’s an old fashioned word for you, courtship, no one goes courting any more, do they?”

Sherlock looked up at her. “We can if you want to, it sounds nice.” He nestled against her and closed his eyes.  “You cried.”

“I think that the pills are making me a bit weepy, but I shouldn’t have let John upset me.”

“Not tonight. In Florida.”

“I remember.” She had shred so many tears in those dark days, but she knew immediately what he was referring to.  “It was a shock. I wasn’t expecting it.” Martha kissed the top of his head. “I didn’t know that you were an addict.”

“I didn’t want you to know or perhaps I did, perhaps that’s why I didn’t lock the door that night.  You were depending on me.  That doesn’t normally bother me, a client is just a client, but I wanted you to know that I was human, fallible. That I might let you down.”

 “But you didn’t,” whispered Martha.

“I thought that you’d feel betrayed when you saw the syringe and the needle tracks on my arms, when you realised that you had put your trust in a junkie. That you’d be angry, that you’d shout…but you just cried.”

“You shouted at me,” said Martha quietly.

“I wasn’t used to anyone caring.  I...I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

“I’ve always cared.” More than she ought to and in ways that she had never admitted to herself until very recently? Her husband had certainly accused her of that.  He had been half-drunk, foul-tempered and foul mouthed.  She had denied everything and she had believed absolutely in her own denials.  Martha shivered. “Henry said that I had feelings for you. If he could see us here, like this, he’d kill us both.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Sherlock grimly.  He pushed the desk chair back a little. “Come here, come on, you’re trembling.”

He drew her down onto his lap.  Martha gave a shaky sigh. “Henry would say all sorts of ugly, crude things about us. He’d demean and degrade and…”

Sherlock kissed her. “Remember what he did, Martha, think how he got his entertainment. What right would he have to sit in moral judgement on you?  He wouldn’t and either does anyone else.”

Martha’s lips quirked. “That won’t stop them. My sister’s going to have kittens.”

“We’ll give one to Mycroft.”

“Does he like cats?” Martha had never been a pet person herself.

Sherlock smiled. “He’s allergic.”

“And you’re wicked!” Martha hugged him and kissed his temple. “We really should get off to bed or we’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow.”

“My bed or yours?”

“Mine, I don’t feel quite ready to brave the wrath of John first thing in the morning.”

“John is going to have to learn to accept our relationship,” said Sherlock.  He took her face in his hands and kissed her again. “I’ll get my pyjamas.”

Martha stood up and held out her hand. Sherlock rose to his feet and enfolded her in his arms. Her head just came up his shoulder. She thought that it was a perfect fit. Martha kissed the base of his throat. “Come on then, love, it’s way past my bedtime.”

Sherlock took her hand and led her into his bedroom.  She sat on the edge of his bed while he got changed.  Martha was tempted to put her feet up and stretch out, but they’d end up staying there if she did. She didn’t want to antagonise John any further. There had been quite enough unpleasantness already.

Sherlock stripped quickly and unselfconsciously. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of.  He was young and fit in every sense. She probably looked better in the dark.

“Damn.” Martha put her hand to her face.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sherlock.

“I forgot that I took my make-up off before I went to bed,” said Martha. “I must look terrible without all my war paint on.”

“You look fine to me.” Sherlock came over to her. He tilted her chin up so that he could kiss her. “Absolutely fine.”

“You should get your eyes tested.”  Martha put her hands on his shoulders. “I was never a beauty, half pretty was how Henry used to describe me.”

“Henry was a bloody idiot.” Sherlock kissed her hair.  “I won’t be a minute.”

He grabbed a pair of cream pyjamas out of a drawer and pulled them on. Martha got up and walked into his waiting arms. She ran her hands over his smooth, almost hairless chest and then buttoned his pyjama jacket up for him while he nuzzled her hair.

Martha took a step back. “If I wasn’t so tired…”

“It’s all right, there’ll be other nights and I’m tired too.” Sherlock tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

*

 “If we’re courting we should go out somewhere,” announced Sherlock.

The reference to courting made Martha smile, but she liked the idea of getting out of the house for a bit. It was six days since their return from Brighton, but you could still cut the atmosphere with a knife whenever John was around.  It was no wonder that Sherlock had taken refuge in her sunlit sitting room.  The old sofa springs pinged when she turned in his embrace.  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“That’s the difficult part,” admitted Sherlock.  “We could go to a concert or to see a film or to the theatre, but it’s so boring just sitting there doing nothing for two or three hours.  There are plenty of galleries, museums and exhibitions, but I know that you’re not keen on history.  John often takes his girlfriends out for a drink, but why would we want to spend an evening in an overcrowded bar full of morons?  We could go out for a meal instead. That might be more enjoyable, but I don’t know which type of restaurant you would prefer.”

Martha smiled fondly. He was trying far too hard. “I’ve never been on the London Eye and I like Chinese food, does that help?”

Sherlock grinned. “Can I use your computer?”

“Help yourself. I’ve got to do the washing up anyway and my worktops need a wipe down.”

Sherlock grabbed her hand. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Soapsuds all over the drainer and streaks all over the worktops? No thanks, love.”  Martha kissed him. “We talked about this yesterday, remember? Let me do what I can while I can.”

“I still think that we should hire a cleaner to do all the heavy work.” Sherlock rested his forehead on hers. “I don’t want you wearing yourself out.”

“That’s sweet of you.” Martha curled her fingers around the nape of his neck. “If – when - things start to be a struggle then I’ll consider it, but not just yet.  I like to be busy and whatever would I do with myself all day if I wasn’t shopping and cooking and cleaning up after you?”

“Rest, relax, visit your friends…”

Martha snorted. “See you’re running out of ideas already.  I’d end up sitting about watching telly and flicking through celebrity magazines all day.  There’ll be time enough for that when I can’t do anything else.  In the meantime I want to get out and about as much as I can, especially in this nice weather. So you had better sort our trip on the London Eye, hadn’t you?”

Sherlock kissed her hand. “Your wish is my command.”

Martha laughed. “I’ll remind you of that later.”

She went into her kitchen and set about tidying up.  Martha hummed a little tune to herself as she worked. She felt fine today and happiness was still happiness even if it was overshadowed by oncoming tragedy. It was just a shame that other people couldn’t be kinder.  John was still in a flat spin. Mrs Turner and her cronies from the social club were gossiping about her behind her back. And as to Muriel, well, that had been the phone call from hell. The minute Martha had told her that she was involved with Sherlock her sister had launched into a furious rant. Then she had passed the phone over to her husband for him to get his two penneth in. Stupid. Senile. Disgusting.  She had been close to tears when Sherlock walked in.  He took one look at her ashen face and plucked the phone out of her hand. 

“Fuck off,” said Sherlock. Then he put the receiver down.

When it rang again a minute later Sherlock kept one arm wrapped around her and yanked the cable out of the socket with his free hand.

Not surprisingly she hadn’t heard from Muriel since.  That was both a relief and a sorrow.  She and Muriel had never been particularly close, but family was family at the end of the day. And the end was very close now.  Martha didn’t need to look at the sunrise calendar on the wall to know that she’d had nearly five weeks out of her allocated six to nine months.  

Well, there was no point in brooding over it.  Her next check-up was on Wednesday and she vowed to put her illness out of her mind as much as she could until then.  Martha tackled the worktop with renewed determination.  

She heard Sherlock’s mobile ring in the other room. “About time too… Why? What part of sort it out for me didn’t you understand, Mycroft?” He appeared in the kitchen doorway with mobile held to his ear. “I’m not interested in their petty regulations!” There was a moment’s impatience silence while Sherlock listened to the voice on the other end. “You owe me a favour…Oh, you think not, what about the French ambassador, the cobra and the strawberry milkshake?” Another pause. “No, I’m not that patriotic. Right. Thank you.”

“What on earth was that all about?” asked Martha.

“The people who run the London Eye are idiots.”

“Oh, well, if it’s going to cause a problem…”

“No problem. Not now.” Sherlock gave her a quick kiss. “I have to go out for a while, but I’ll be back to pick you up at six.”

“We’re going tonight?” Martha hadn’t expected their date to take place quite so quickly, but she should have known that everything happened at light speed when Sherlock was involved.

“Yes, why not?” Sherlock hesitated. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course it is, silly.”  She gave him a hug. “Thank you.”

Sherlock left her with a blinding smile and another kiss.  Martha deliberately hadn’t asked where he was off to in such a hurry. She didn’t want him to think that she was keeping tabs on him. They were both used to being able to come and go as they pleased.  That freedom was a joy to her after years of being married to a demanding, domineering man.  She understood Sherlock’s need to be unfettered.  The shadow touched her again. Her decline and death would clip his wings.

If he stayed with her until the very end.

*

London was beautiful in the twilight. A myriad of lights twinkled on either side of the dark ribbon of the Thames.  The bridges that laced the two halves of the city together were also covered with constantly moving lights. There was a haze on the horizon, but not even Sherlock could order the weather.

“I never expected all this,” said Martha.  She took a sip of her champagne and turned from the glittering view to smile at Sherlock.

“Only the best.” He raised his own glass in salute.

Martha held her hand out to him.  He came to join her at the front of the capsule.  Sherlock put his champagne flute down.  He tilted her chin up and kissed her. It was a gesture that was already familiar to them both. Martha melted into his arms. This whole evening was enchanting, despite the brief altercation with the staff before they had boarded the wheel.  They had insisted that a host had to accompany them in the capsule. Sherlock was adamant that the matter had been resolved before hand.  After a phone call to the management office and some heated words here they were. Alone.

“It must have cost a fortune,” she said.

“Aren’t you worth it?” Sherlock murmured into her ear. He put his arms around her waist.

Their capsule rose majestically towards the apex of the wheel and London shimmered in the gathering darkness.

*

There were other dates. Different restaurants, a Thames riverboat cruise alongside all the camera happy tourists. Although she wasn’t particularly interested in history Martha did like art and they were in the middle of the Tate Modern when Sherlock’s phone rang.

It was Inspector Lestrade.

“No, I can’t come now.” Sherlock winked at her.  “I’ve got a date.” He switched his mobile off.

“Now he’s going to want to know all the whys and wherefores,” said Martha.

“Why shouldn’t he know? It’s not a secret, is it?”

“No, of course not,” said Martha, but she had doubts about how well the news would be received.

*

John wasn’t sure what he was doing at the crime scene. Sherlock didn’t need him for this.  A first year medical student could have worked out that the victim had died from multiple stab wounds.  His body had been found next to the lake in Battersea Park by a dog walker.  The dead man was in his mid-twenties, about five feet nine inches tall and of mixed race.  Doubtless he would also turn out to be a twin as had all the other murder victims.

Only Sherlock had asked him to come along and John had agreed, albeit it grudgingly. Things were still stained and awkward between them.  They had pretty much gone their own separate ways over the past couple of weeks. Sherlock was virtually living downstairs with Mrs Hudson. He certainly hadn’t slept in his own bed since their return from Brighton and that still made John very uncomfortable.

Lestrade approached him with a plastic cup of coffee in each hand. “Here, it’s brass monkeys this morning.”

“Thanks.”  John wrapped his hands around the cup to warm them. A persistent grey drizzle was falling and a heavy mist hung over the lake. 

 “What’s all this about Sherlock having a date then?” said Lestrade.

“Ask him.” John took a sip of the bitter, lukewarm coffee. “As I’ve been told in no uncertain terms it’s none of my bloody business.”

Lestrade frowned. “I wondered if you two had had some sort of bust up, you seem pretty short with each other. He hasn’t pinched your girlfriend, has he?”

“No.”

“Okay, all right, there’s no need to snap at me.” Lestrade crumpled his cup up and threw it into the park litter bin. “Look, I know we’re supposed to be all politically correct and liberal, but I suppose it might feel a bit awkward for you – well, I’d feel awkward to be honest –  if he’s bringing a bloke home and they’re all loved up.”

“Sherlock hasn’t got a boyfriend and it wouldn’t bother me if he had.”

“Well, something’s bothering you all right.”

John sighed. “Ask him, Greg, maybe I am over reacting. Maybe it really isn’t any of my business, but this whole thing feels wrong to me.”

“I might just do that.” Lestrade raised his voice. “Hey, Sherlock, come over here.”

Sherlock frowned.  He said something to the uniformed PC and then strode over the grass towards them.

“So who’s this mystery girlfriend of yours?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked towards John for a moment. “I’m surprised that John hasn’t told you.” He looked at Lestrade. “It’s Martha.”

“Martha?” echoed Lestrade.

“Mrs Hudson, you idiot.”

The shock on Lestrade’s face made John feel that he was not the only sane one left in the universe.  He pulled his face and gave a slight shrug as if to say don’t ask me, I don’t understand it either.

“Mrs Hudson? Is this a wind-up? “ Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John and back again. “No, it isn’t, is it? Bloody hell, Sherlock, she’s got to be seventy-five if she’s a day.”

“Seventy-three actually, is that relevant?”

“To most people yes, but this is you we’re talking about.” Lestrade hesitated. “Isn’t she…poorly?”

 “She has terminal cancer if that constitutes poorly,” said Sherlock without any show of emotion.

“God, you can’t half pick ‘em.” Lestrade lowered his voice. “You’re not doing yourself any favours, mate.  John’s got the right hump and most people are going to give you a load of grief. And when she gets bad it’s going to be rough, very rough. I just hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock’s gaze encompassed both Lestrade and John. “I’m committed to this relationship.”

“You bloody well should be,” muttered John.

“Give him a break,” said Lestrade sharply. He sighed. “You see a lot of things in this job. They’re not all easy, they’re not all conventional and they’re not all bad.” Lestrade pointed at the barrier which had been erected to shield the body from the eyes of the curious. “Not like this mess. If you’re got any thoughts, Sherlock, I could do with hearing them.”

“Several, in fact,” said Sherlock. “Let’s take another look at the corpse.”

Sherlock swung around and headed towards the lake.

Lestrade gave John a clap on the shoulder as he passed him. “He was never going to do it the easy way, was he?” said Lestrade with a wry smile. “Sherlock Holmes in love, now there’s a thought.”

It wasn’t one that John was happy with, not under these circumstances, and he couldn’t help feeling that Lestrade had let him down by not sharing his qualms.

*

Martha had bad days, days when she hurt all over and everything was an effort.  She was worn out by mid-afternoon and she sat down for a little rest. The street lights were just coming on when she woke up two hours later. Still groggy from sleep she got up to make a drink and the room swayed alarmingly. Martha sat down again quickly. She felt faint, sick and very cold.  If it had been flu she could have contended with it, but knowing what it was frightened her.  This was only the beginning. It was going to get worse, much worse. How would she cope when she got too frail to do anything for herself? When the nagging pain became an agony that the pills wouldn’t touch?   Martha whimpered. Sherlock was out and she felt very alone.  Yet she didn’t want him to see her like this, not until it became unavoidable.

So she had better pull her silly self together before he came home.

Martha got up cautiously and put the cushions straight on the sofa. She stood in front of the gilt framed mirror to run a comb through her hair and reapply her lipstick.  Her pale, pinched face stared back at her and she grimaced at the sight. She always tried to keep herself nice, not just for Sherlock, but as matter of pride and self-respect.  Well, she would just have to do.

Martha got herself some tea and switched the radio on.  She had just started to feel a little more human when the afternoon post arrived. It was the usual assortment of bills and adverts, apart from one envelope.  Martha still had the letter spread out before her on the kitchen table when Sherlock walked in.

“What’s the matter?” he asked immediately.

“It’s from Muriel’s solicitor.” Martha handed him the letter. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Sherlock scanned over it quickly and his expression grew darker.  He flipped the page over and studied the signature on the bottom.  “Anthony Carruthers, does that name mean anything to you?”

“I think that he’s on the parish council with my brother-in-law, Sidney.”

“Unethical then as well as meaningless.” Sherlock sat down and took her hand across the table.  “This is all just empty threats and jargon; ‘your nearest relatives wish to express their grave concern’, and then there’s this little piece of nothing, ‘will, if necessary, take all appropriate legal steps to safeguard your interests’.  There’s nothing they can actually do and they know it. This is just meant to frighten you, Martha.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I’m not frightened and I’m not giving you up.” Martha turned the letter around so that she could read over it again. “It’s their own interests that they want to safeguard, not mine.  I know this is a load of rubbish, but Muriel’s my sister, the only blood relative that I’ve got left, and I can’t believe that she’d do this to me, not at a time like this.”

“John seems to think that you need protecting, that I’m wrong for you, a bad influence,” said Sherlock slowly. “Perhaps your sister thinks the same.”

“I don’t want protection. I just want some bloody respect,” flashed back Martha. “I know where this load of tosh belongs.” She ripped the solicitor’s letter into small pieces and threw them into the kitchen bin. “What sort of day did you have?”

“Dull. Lestrade’s still insisting on questioning the suspect Sally Donovan brought in last night.  I told them both that you can see from his wristwatch that he’s not the murderer, but will they listen?”

“Well, when it turns out that they have got the wrong man you’ll be able to say I told you so, won’t you?”

“It’s not funny,” said Sherlock, but there was a sparkle in his eyes.

Martha smiled back at him.  He had lifted her flagging spirits simply by walking into the room. And if that wasn’t soppy and sentimental she didn’t know what was.

“Come here,” said Sherlock.

She walked over to him and he put his hands on her waist. Martha lowered her head for his kiss. It was sweet and good, but a sudden stab of pain in her lower back made her gasp.

“Martha?” Sherlock held her arms to steady her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just a little bit delicate today.” She stroked his cheek. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not about to keel over.”

“No, you’re not because you’re going to lie down and rest.” He stood up, holding her tightly.

“I’ve been resting most of the afternoon. It’s only that silly letter that’s upset me.  There’s no need for you to fuss and fret. I’m all right, really I am. Didn’t the specialist say that I’m doing remarkably well? So why don’t I get us some supper?”

Sherlock kissed her forehead. “Can I help?”

“Best not, I don’t like people under my feet when I’m cooking, not even you, and I still don’t know how you managed to burn that saucepan last time.”

“The instructions were imprecise.” Sherlock traced the line of her jaw with his index finger. “I…I never knew that it was possible for me to feel like this.”

“Why shouldn’t you, love? Oh, I don’t mean me. I’m nothing special.” Martha put her hand on his chest. “There is a heart in there, for all you like to pretend that there isn’t.”

Sherlock disentangled himself from her embrace and from the conversation. “If you’re sure that you’re all right I’ll nip upstairs and get my laptop. There are a few things that I need to check out.”

“You are so frustrating sometimes.” She gave him a little push. “Go and get your wretched computer then.”

Sherlock stopped in the doorway. “Martha?”

“What, love?”

“You are special.”

“Oh, go away.” She was far too old to blush when a man paid her a compliment.

*

They were curled up on her sofa. Sherlock had his laptop balanced on the arm. He hit the track pad with more force than strictly necessary. “Stupid thing.”

Martha lifted her head from his shoulder so that she could see the screen. “There’s no point fighting it if the connection’s gone down. It did that to me last week when I was halfway through ordering my shopping. I had to do the whole order all over again. I might just as well have got the bus to Tesco's.”

“Taxi.” Sherlock thumped the track pad again. “Get a taxi if you’re going anywhere. I don’t want you dragging on and off buses.”

“I can manage on the bus. It stops just outside the supermarket and taxis cost a fortune.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at her. “I always charge it back to the client, but I didn’t think…are you all right for money?”

“I’m fine.” Martha kissed his cheek. “The house is all paid for as you know. I’ve got a small pension and the rent money from you and John. And I’ve got my old ladies’ travel pass, so I don’t have to pay for the buses or the tube. I just can’t afford to go gallivanting around London in a taxi.”

“I’ll give you the money for the fare,” said Sherlock.

“Don’t be daft. I’m perfectly all right on the bus.” Martha put her arm around his neck. “Besides I don’t want people saying that I’m a kept woman, a floozy. No better than she ought to be, that was the phrase in my day.”

Sherlock grinned. “And are you no better than you ought to be?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out about.” Martha put her fingers across his lips when he moved in to kiss her. “Only my back’s still playing up and I don’t really feel like being jolted about tonight.” She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Still there are more ways than one to skin a cat, you know.”

Sherlock kissed her palm. “If you’re feeling unwell we can just go to sleep.”

“Oh, but you do sound disappointed. Hush…I’m flattered and I do want to, rather more than I should at my time of life, just nothing too energetic.”

 Sherlock turned her hand around in his and kissed her fingers. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” she agreed.

Her bed was far more comfy than the two-seater sofa which was too small for Sherlock to stretch out on anyway. She settled down under the duvet while Sherlock got ready in the bathroom.  The cotton cover was cool on her bare skin. Martha still felt a little self-conscious without her nightie, but not nearly as much as she had been at first. They were getting the measure of each other in this as they were in other things. She sighed and shifted position, parting her legs slightly under the covers. In her younger days a sensual streak in her make-up had got her labelled as flighty or worse. It was different now of course, young women could do as they pleased in bed and out of it.  She really had been born in the wrong era.

The bathroom light clicked off and Sherlock came into the room. Like her he was naked. 

"Have you been thinking about me?" Martha asked with a giggle. “I still can’t believe that I have this affect on you.” She threw back the covers and he got into bed with her.

“Oh, but you do. You’ve been appalling bad for my concentration all day.” Sherlock kissed her lips and then lowered his head to her breasts. “Sweet Martha.”  He kissed the swell of her breast and took her nipple in his mouth.

Martha cradled the back of his head. She felt a spasm of desire deep in her belly. Dear god, she loved…

Sherlock raised his head. His lips were wet. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” Martha shook her head on the snowy white pillow. Then she reached up to trace the line of his jaw, the high angle of his cheekbone. “I love you.”

There it was said and she waited for it to drive him away from her.

“Oh, Martha.” Sherlock closed his eyes. He pulled her up into his arms, into an embrace that was so tight it was almost painful.

After a couple of minutes she reached behind her back and tugged on his hand. “I have to breathe, love.”

“I’m sorry.” He lowered her back onto the pillows, but he didn’t quite meet her eye. Sherlock fell back onto the pillow beside her. “I’m behaving like a sentimental fool, aren’t I?”

She could have made a joke out of it, but this wasn’t the right time for that. “No, not at all. I think we’re both a bit overwrought, don’t you?” She ran her hand down the length of his body. “And you, my love, are like a rock.”

Martha closed her hand around his erection and his stomach muscles jumped.

“I told you. I’ve been thinking about you all day.” Sherlock tugged gently on her shoulder. “Come here, I want to kiss you.”

He covered her mouth with his and flicked the tip of his tongue over hers. She revelled in the demanding pressure of his lips and in the feel of his hand on her breast. This was so deliciously naughty, but she could be wicked too. Martha stroked his cock, slowly, teasingly.

Sherlock groaned and rolled over onto his back. “God, I need this.”  He canted his hips. “More, please, sweetheart.”

He had never called her that before. It sent a long shiver down her spine to hear him say in it that loving, lustful tone. Martha obliged, moving her hand a little faster and adding a flick of her wrist. The arm she supported herself on started to cramp and she wriggled down beside him. Sherlock put his arm around her shoulders and she kissed her way along his jaw line. It quivered every time he groaned and she loved the scent of him; all heat and sex laced with the citrus and spice of expensive aftershave.

“Touch me,” he begged. “Oh god, more…”

“Time to finish?” she whispered into his neck.

Sherlock nodded against her head. “Yes, no, oh god…just a bit more.” He thrust into her hand. “Not much longer…oh, god…”

How she loved to see him like this. It excited her and humbled her, and made her feel fiercely protective of him.  “I love you,” she said again.

Sherlock moaned. “Martha…” He gave a long gasping sigh as he climaxed.

“Better?” asked Martha softly. She kissed his lax mouth and rested her head on his heaving chest.

“Oh, yes.” He held her close.

Her fingers were sticky with his semen, but she didn’t want to disturb him by moving away to find a tissue. Martha’s smile faded as a thought occurred to her. “If you found yourself a woman of your own age you could start a family.”

“No way,” said Sherlock so vehemently that she laughed. “I’m not the least bit interested in being a father.”

“Well, I suppose that not everyone wants children.”  She had wanted them once, but that was long ago. Martha snuggled down against his side. “It was just a thought.”

Sherlock kissed her. “You’re all that I want.”

“I won’t be with you forever, love.”

He rolled over so that he was looking down at her. “You’re here now, my sweet Martha.”

Sherlock trailed his hand over her hip and down between her legs.  She made a little pleased noise and let her thighs fall open.  He bent over and kissed her parted lips. “Nice?” he murmured.

 “Oh, yes…”

Sherlock chuckled warmly.  It hadn’t taken him long to learn all the touches she liked best.  Martha hooked her leg over his shin, opening herself up to his questing fingers. This was more than nice. It was pure bliss. She whimpered and felt the movement of his hand became a little defter, a little more demanding.  When he encircled her with two fingers, rubbing just above her clitoris, Martha clung to him and came.

She felt exhausted afterwards, too satiated and comfortable to even move.  Sherlock turned out the lamp and the darkness was velvet soft on her closed eyelids. Martha knew that there was nothing to fear in it even before he enfolded her in his arms.

*

John returned home to an empty flat. To unwelcoming darkness.  There was an unseasonal chill in the air and the room felt cold, almost unlived in. All the lights had been off downstairs when he came in, so they were either out or more likely they had already turned in for the night.

It still left a sour taste in his mouth.

Maybe Greg Lestrade was right. Perhaps he was overreacting, but Lestrade didn’t have to live with it. He did and it had changed everything. The last thing he had expected when he moved in was to end up playing gooseberry to Sherlock and their elderly landlady. 

John sat down heavily in his armchair.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t fond of Mrs Hudson. He had grown attached to their fussy, kind-hearted landlady, but he had assumed that Sherlock’s feelings towards her were as platonic as his own.  Well, he should have known better than to assume anything where Sherlock was concerned. The man was a genius, an enigma and an infuriating bastard all rolled into one.

Why should he expect this whole stupid situation to make any sense?

Okay, so it wasn’t unique. There’s wasn’t the only relationship in the world where the age gap was as wide as the Grand Canyon, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it.  Mrs Hudson seemed happy though. He had heard her humming away to herself while she was dusting the hallway.  And Sherlock? It was a bit difficult to tell when they’d spent the last two weeks either avoiding each other or arguing.  There hadn’t been a hint of uncertainty when Sherlock had spoken to Lestrade in the park though. Was this more than an ego trip, more than sexual experimentation and mere convenience for him? John honestly didn’t know.

The only thing he was sure of was that nothing would ever be the same again.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Martha I decided that I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb :)

Martha Hudson was cleaning the upstairs kitchen, humming to herself as she dusted down the worktops.

The living room door banged shut and she looked up as Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway. He leant against the wall and pulled off his black leather gloves.

“Hello, Mrs Hudson.”

“Hello, dear, did you have a nice afternoon?”

He flopped down into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “It was…difficult.” 

She threw the duster into the washing machine. “Why was that, lov – dear?”

Sherlock looked away, down at the Formica worktop. “It’s embarrassing,” he muttered.

“You can tell me, if you want too that is, you know that I’m not one to pry.”

He actually blushed, a soft bloom of pink on his pale face. “I keep getting…excited. I’ve been erect for most of the afternoon.” Sherlock sat back in the chair with his long legs stretched out.  He rubbed his hand over the front of his trousers. “Look, I’m hard now, just sitting here talking to you.”

Her stomach clenched, tight and aching with lust.  She managed to make a sympathetic noise. “Oh, Sherlock, why don’t you go and lie down and have a nice wank?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I need more than that.”  He unzipped his flies. “Just look at the state I’m in.” He wasn’t wearing anything under his trousers and his cock sprung free instantly. 

She squeezed her thighs together. “Oh, that does look hard.”

“It is.” Sherlock lifted his hips slightly, flaunting himself. “Come and feel it, it’s like iron.”

“Now I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you?” Martha walked towards him and her high heels rap-tapped on the kitchen floor.  She closed her hand around his cock and smiled when he sighed happily. “It is quite stiff though.  It must be very uncomfortable for you, dear.”

“It is,” he declared plaintively.

Martha looked away. If she caught his eye she’d burst out laughing. “Don’t worry, it’ll be better once you’ve had a nice come.” She gave his cock a squeeze. “Would it help if I let you fuck me?”

“Would you really do that for me?”  Sherlock asked in wide eyed astonishment.

Martha bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to crack up.  “Well, just this once, dear, I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.”

Sherlock put one hand on her waist.  She resisted the urge to bend over and kiss him.  He slid his other hand up under her skirt.  Martha held her breath as it glided over her thigh. Her flesh tingled in the wake of his touch.  His hand trailed across her stomach and stopped.

“Mrs Hudson, you’re not wearing any knickers!”

His perfectly feigned shock was too much for her. Martha started giggling helplessly. She clutched his shoulders for support.  “Oh, for heaven’s sake let me sit on your lap, love.”

“Come on then, sweetheart.”  Sherlock’s eyes were full of wicked amusement. “Sit on me.”

Still holding his shoulders she straddled his lap, feeling her thigh muscles protest at the sudden stretch. Sherlock clasped her hips and eased her down onto his erection.  Martha gasped and lowered her head for a kiss.  Sherlock’s lips were a little wind chapped. He tasted of brandy, dark chocolate and cannabis; of the love feast they had shared in her bed. 

Sherlock gave her another lingering kiss before tilted his head back and smiled at her tenderly.  He winked at her. Then he looked down to where their bodies were joined.  A quizzical expression appeared on his face. “Oh, Mrs Hudson, my cock’s in your…in your…” 

Even he couldn’t maintain the act any longer.  A second later they were both in hysterics, laughing far too much to do anything but cling together. 

Martha slapped him across the shoulder. “Just shut up and screw me, will you?”

“If you insist.” Sherlock kissed her deeply and kept his hands cupped around her face when he began to thrust.  

They rocked together, deliberately keeping the pace slow and never breaking eye contact.   

Martha gasped, sliding forward into Sherlock’s embrace.  They exchanged sloppy kisses between bouts of giggling. He thrust a bit harder, a bit faster. Then he drew back so that he could look into her eyes again. 

“Table?” he asked with a roguish smile.

“If you insist.”   Her smile was every bit as mischievous as his. 

She put her hands on his shoulders, balancing herself as she stood up. Then she held out both her hands to him. Sherlock bestowed a light kiss on each one and then rose gracefully to his feet.   Even her high, high heels didn’t fully compensate for the height differences and he had to bow his head to kiss her again. 

“You’re a bad woman,” he murmured laughingly.

“My mama told me to be good and I am.” She had heard that line in an old film, Mae West or somebody like that.  

“Prove it.”

“Come here and say that.” Martha hitched herself up onto the edge of the table. “You can forget that bit about me locking my legs around your waist though. I’d probably dislocate my dodgy hip if I even tried.”

“It’s not important.”  Sherlock dragged the chair round.  “Here.”  He clasped her right ankle and lifted her foot onto the chair.  Then he leant in to claim another kiss, running his hand up her leg as he did so. 

Martha parted her thighs a little more. Her heel scraped on the wooden seat and she wrapped her other leg around his, so that her stiletto dug into the back of his calf.  He slipped back into her well lubricated opening easily enough.  She whimpered her pleasure and he groaned.  Sherlock nibbled at her ear lobe, whispering wickedness between hard, breathless thrusts. Yet he still remembered to brace her against his chest, taking most of her slender weight and supporting her back.  

Her eyes closed, everything was feeling, everything was sensation. “I love you,” she whispered. 

Sherlock held her close and let his head drop forward onto her shoulder. He thrust into her with quick, uncoordinated jerks of his hips. The phone rang in the other room and they both ignored it.  Martha‘s cries rose and his laboured breathing grew ever more rapid.

They came within a couple of minutes of each other, not knowing or caring where one orgasm ended and the other began.

Sherlock carried her to his bed. They stripped off and crawled under the covers. The bed hadn’t been slept in for weeks and the sheets were cold on her bare skin.  Still it was much nicer than having to trek all the way downstairs. Martha snuggled closer to Sherlock.  

“You enjoyed that,” she said.

Sherlock chuckled. “So did you.” He kissed the crown of her head. “I used to fantasize about this as well, about coming home to find you curled up in my bed.”

“Halloween, was it?”

“Don’t say things like that.” He lifted her chin so that she had to look into his eyes. “There’s no need to keep putting yourself down.” Sherlock tapped her on the nose. “Pay attention, you are amazing, wonderful and rather sexy.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.”  Martha rubbed her hand along his arm. “One day…” She shivered. “One day you’ll realise how ordinary I was and how old. There’s a sensual side to you that’s hidden under that glacial façade you present to the world. You like sex, you like it a lot. When you’ve got a healthy young woman to share it with my memory will soon pale in comparison.”

Sherlock looked at her as if she had gone completely insane. “What on earth are you talking about? Do you really think that I’m simply going to replace you?”  He stroked her hair back off her face. “There’ll never be anyone else for me.”

“Yes, there will. I want there to be. I don’t want to think of you being alone.”  Jealousy flared in her, bright and cruel, a violent hatred for the unknown woman who would have him while she rotted in her grave. Love was stronger than that, stronger than the pain in her heart. “I know that you mean it now, but time changes things. When I’ve been gone for a year, for five, for ten, when you wake up one morning and realise that twenty years have passed and that I’m just a distant memory then-“

“I’ll still love you. Always and only you.”  There were tears in his eyes. “You’re the only woman in the world for me.”

Martha wiped her hand across his cheek. She was crying herself, soft tears that ran silently down her face. “Oh, love, you won’t always feel like that.”  

“Yes, I will.”  Sherlock pulled her into a desperate embrace. He buried his face in hair. 

Martha held onto him. She was torn between selfishness and a desperate wish for him to be happy. “It won’t matter to me. I won’t know and I won’t care…” That was the hardest thing of all to bear. “If I could take one thing into the darkness with me, one memory for eternity, it would be you.”

She sobbed into his neck and they held one another while the shadows lengthened in the room.

*

The doorbell rang again, incessantly shrill and demanding.

“All right, all right, I can hear you.” Martha wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried down the hallway.

“About time too,” was the first thing her brother-in-law said when she opened the door.

“We thought that you were pretending to be out,” added her sister.

Martha wished that she had done just that. Their demeanour told her plainly that this was not going to be a pleasant visit. “I was busy baking and I had to wash the flour off my hands.”  She stood aside to usher them in. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you were.” Muriel air-kissed the space next to Martha’s cheek. “Poor Sidney’s rushed off his feet. The business is doing so well, you wouldn’t believe how many orders we’ve got.  We couldn’t really spare the time to traipse all the way up to London, but you are my sister after all.”

“And someone has to talk some sense into you,” added Sidney darkly.

“I thought that it might be something like that.” Martha braced herself for another lecture on common sense, morality and decency. “If you were hoping to meet Sherlock I’m afraid that he’s out.”

“Off chasing some young dolly bird, is he?” demanded Sidney.

“No, he isn’t.” That was one doubt that they couldn’t plant in her mind, especially not after yesterday. “If you must know he’s at Scotland Yard working on a murder case.”

“There’s no need to take that tone with us, not after we’ve come all the way from Berkshire to see you,” Muriel told her sharply.  “I see that you’re still dyeing your hair.” She patted her snow white bob. “If you ask me there comes a time when it’s better to grow old gracefully.”

“Instead of making a mug of yourself over some young fella,” said Sidney. “Are we going to stand in the bleeding hallway all afternoon?”

“Of course not, why don’t you come through and I’ll put the kettle on?”  Martha was determined not to rise to the bait. 

“I see that you never did get around to decorating.” Muriel looked around the kitchen. “And you’ve still got those blue curtains, well, I suppose that it’s not worth it now.” 

“The whole place needs gutting out and modernising.” Sidney was a builder by trade. “When did you last have the damp course done and the wiring checked?”

Martha took a deep breath. “What’s it got to do with you?”

“It hasn’t, pet,” Muriel replied too quickly. “Sidney can’t help taking a professional interest in the property and I just want to make sure that you’re safe. Only last week I was reading about an electrical fire that destroyed an entire house.”

“And you don’t want to see your inheritance go up in smoke?” asked Martha sweetly. “Well, you needn’t worry about that.”  She had changed her will shortly after her diagnosis, well before she and Sherlock had become lovers. He would inherit her house, not them. 

“I’m sure we needn’t.” Muriel patted her hand condescendingly. “I do worry about you though, living like this and then there’s this odd infatuation of yours.  Now don’t look like that, we’re only trying to help. Why don’t you put that kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa and a nice talk?”

“A bit of lunch wouldn’t come amiss.” Sidney plonked himself down in a chair and waited to be waited on. “I’ll make do with a sandwich.”

“There’s a café next door,” snapped Martha.

“Well, that’s bleeding nice, after we’ve come all this way to see you.”  Sidney glared at his wife. “I told you it was a waste of time.”

Muriel fumbled in her handbag for her purse. “Why don’t you go and get us all something to eat while I have a nice girly chat with Martha?” She said pointedly.

Sidney pocketed the twenty pound note Muriel offered him. “Is there a bookies round here?”

“There’s a Ladbrokes in the next street,” said Martha.

“I’ll be back in a bit then.” Sidney gave Muriel a quick peek on the cheek. “You try and talk to her. She’s your bloody sister.”

Martha was glad to get rid of him, perhaps Muriel would be a bit more amenable on her own. She brewed the tea and they took it and a plate of biscuits through into her living room.  Sherlock’s laptop was on the table and his black jacket hung on the back of a chair.

Muriel sniffed. “I see he’s making himself at home.” She felt the material of the jacket. “Expensive stuff this.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Martha was just grateful that her bedroom door was shut. Muriel would have had a field day with the blue dressing gown on the hook and the pyjamas under the pillow.

“As long as you’re not paying for it.”

“I’m not,” said Martha. 

Muriel sat down. “You could do with a new sofa more than he could do with a fancy jacket,” she said ignoring Martha’s denial. “Our Tony found some pictures of him on the internet, snappy dresser isn’t he? Pouncing about in that coat, Sidney said only queers dress like that.”

“That’s just the sort of remark I’d expect him to make.” Her brother-in-law was slightly right wing of Hitler and his opinions on queers, idle layabouts and foreigners could fill volumes. Martha sat in the armchair opposite her sister. “Take it from me, Sherlock isn’t gay.”

Muriel glanced around and lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “How can you be sure? Does he ever try it on with you, make demands, you know?”

Martha sighed. Their private life was none of Muriel’s business, but she’d never hear the last of it if she told her that. Then something sparked in her head, naughty and mischievous. “Well, he did shag me on the kitchen table yesterday.”

“There’s no need to make crude jokes. This is serious, Martha.”

“I’m not going to discuss the intimate details of my relationship with you.” Martha looked at Sherlock’s jacket. For a moment she wished fervently that he was here to back her up.  Yet she was equally glad that he wasn’t because there probably would have been a terrible scene.  Besides she had been battling with Muriel over one thing or another for most of her life. She could handle this on her own.

“Relationship?” Muriel arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You don’t seriously think of this sordid little liaison of yours as a relationship do you?  You’re making a complete ass of yourself over a man who’s young enough to be your son and if you are letting him…you know…then that’s just sickening.” 

Muriel’s unfeigned disgust wounded even though Martha knew that it shouldn’t.  A wave of tiredness swept over her. All she wanted was for them to go away and leave her in peace.

“You haven’t even asked how I am,” she said quietly.

“You haven’t got an answer for that, have you?” Muriel continued, ignoring her remark once again. “Be honest, Martha, you know that he’s only out for what he can get.”

“That’s not true.”  Martha held onto the arm of the chair. She had started to feel physically sick. 

“Of course it is,” said Muriel impatiently. “What about that business a couple of years ago?”

 It was Muriel’s trump card, played with a self-satisfied flourish. Martha itched to slap the smug look of her face, but why in god’s name had she ever told Muriel about the whole sorry incident? She should have kept it private, secret, but she had been hurt and angry, looking for a sympathetic ear.  Muriel had called her a gullible old fool. 

“It was five years ago,” said Martha, “and it’s all water under the bridge now.”

Muriel sneered. “Until he does it again.”

“He won’t,” Martha replied resolutely.  

“Don’t be so bloody naïve, of course he’ll do it again. He’s a –“

“No, he isn’t.” Martha stood up. “I think that you had better go now.”

Muriel didn’t take kindly to being thrown out, after they had come all this way, out of the goodness of their hearts. She complained bitterly about how ungrateful Martha was all the way to the front door. 

“We’ve only been here ten minutes.” Muriel fastened her black coat with an angry flourish. “Now I suppose that I’ll have to go and find Sidney and tell him that we’re not welcome here anymore. That toy boy of yours has turned your head.” Muriel tapped her forehead sharply. “You’re getting senile, Martha, blind to all reason, you just won’t hear a word against him, will you?”

“No, I won’t.”  Martha folded her arms. “So unless you’ve got anything good to say just don’t bother saying anything at all.”

“I’ll say this, this whole thing is grotesque and I don’t intend to let it continue for a moment longer than I have to.”

A chill ran down Martha’s spine. She had seen this vicious, spiteful side of Muriel before and she was suddenly uneasy. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Muriel gave her a look that was almost pitying. “You can pretend that you’ve found the love of your life, but that life’s almost over.  You’re a dying woman, Martha, and I’m your only relative, your next-of-kin, and eventually I’m going to be the one making the decisions about your care.” She glanced up the stairs. “And about this house and who lives in it. I’ll have your precious Sherlock out on his ear.”

“You won’t you know.” Martha hadn’t been going to tell her and certainly not like this, but she had had about as much as she could take. “I’m leaving him the house.”

For a moment even Muriel was stuck dumb. “You’re doing what? Have you got any idea how much this place is worth?”

“I bet your Sidney has, you thought that you were going to be millionaires, didn’t you? Well, tough bloody luck because you’re not getting my house.” It hurt her throat to shout like that, but Martha was too infuriated to care.

“Because you’d rather leave it to a junkie than to me,” yelled Muriel. “He’ll turn the place into a crack den in a fortnight.”

Martha did what she had longed to do. She slapped her. “I’d rather leave the house to the fucking dog’s home than to you. Now get out.”

Muriel put her hand to her inflamed cheek. “You’re going mad, Martha, probably some kind of dementia. I’ll try to remember that none of this is your fault, that you need care not condemnation.”

The chill was back, colder than before.  Martha looked into her sister’s bitter face. “We’ve never really liked one another, have we? That’s sad really, I always thought that family mattered, but sometimes when you’re on the edge, when you’re dying, you have to see things how they are really are, not how you might want them to be. I’d rather that you didn’t come back here again. You don’t need to write or phone either, just leave us alone.”

“I’ll do my duty by you when the time comes,” said Muriel. “Sidney and I will see that you’re looked after properly. I’ll make the right decisions for you, Martha.”

Martha glared at her. “You’ll do what’s right for you, just as you always have, and you won’t give a damn if you break my heart in the process.”

Pain flared in Muriel’s eyes, a moment of hurt that might have bridged the rift between them, but the next instant it was gone and her countenance was harder than ever.  “It won’t be me who breaks your bloody heart, it’ll be him, your precious Sherlock and you needn’t come crying to me when he does.”  She yanked the front door open. “You know where I am when you’re ready to apologise for the way you’ve treated me today.”

Martha let her go. At that moment she truly didn’t care whether she ever saw Muriel again or not.   All the upset had left her exhausted and heartsick.  Her back was raw and her head was throbbing.  She made her way slowly to her bedroom, where she took a couple of pills and huddled under the duvet.  The coldness was back, worse than before.  Perhaps she should have made herself a hot water bottle, but she felt too tired and ill to get up again.  She hoped that she’d feel better after a little sleep and that she’d be able to pull herself together before Sherlock came in. Martha shifted over so that her head rested on his pillow. She slipped her hand under it and clutched the soft fabric of his pyjamas.  Such a silly thing to do, like a child with a teddy bear and yet it was comforting.  She smiled faintly and stretched out under the thick duvet, already just a little warmer than she had been. 

*

It was late and she was still feeling emotionally and physically fragile, but Sherlock’s enthusiasm knew no bounds.

It was insane. Mad. Ludicrous.

Sherlock spun around.  “It’s perfect! Brilliant.”  He stopped his relentless, energetic pacing for an instant. “Why did I never think of it before?”  Three more long steps brought him up to her china cabinet and he turned neatly on his heel. “There’s nothing they’ll be able to do once it’s done, no more insults and barely veiled threats.”  

His sheer energy and exuberance made her laugh where she could have wept, but Martha clung stubbornly to the tatters of her common-sense. “Sherlock, we can’t possibly-“

“It’s the obvious solution.”  Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, waiting for her to applaud his brilliance.

Martha wasn’t laughing anymore. He hadn’t listened to anything she had been saying and she’d had quite enough of being ignored for one day, thank you very much.  Sherlock whirled around, bursting with an enthusiasm that seemed too large to be contained by her living room walls. She couldn’t keep up. He was leaving her behind, stranded on the shore while he braved the wild waves. 

“Sherlock!”

He came back to her instantly and flopped down onto the sofa next to her, all long limbs and boyish grin. Martha found herself smiling back at him.  “You could steal fire from the devil, but don’t I get a say in this?”

“Of course you do,” he said cheerfully.

“Then just listen to me for two seconds. It’s kind of you, love, more than kind, but don’t you think that it’s a bit of a sledgehammer to crack a nut?”

Sherlock brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “How many times am I going to come home to find that they’ve upset you yet again?  Letters, phone calls and now this unannounced visit, okay, so you told them to stay away, but do you honestly think that they’ll take a blind bit of notice? “

“I very much doubt it,” admitted Martha. “You wouldn’t believe the tongue lashing I got from Muriel.  I don’t think that she listened to a single word that I said. She’d say that it was all for my own good, that you’ve turned me against her. Poor Muriel always has to be the victim, but the truth is we’ve never been close.” Martha rested her aching head on his shoulder.”  Perhaps it would have been different if we’d grown up together, but I was evacuated at the beginning of the war. I was only a tiny girl. Can you imagine sending a baby hundreds of miles away from home all on her own? People just wouldn’t do it now.  Even then mum could have come with me, only she wanted to stay in London with Dad.  Muriel was born a year later.  She was five by the time I came home, spoilt rotten and used to being the only one. Somehow we never did quite catch up on those missing years.”

“That’s no excuse, she still had no right to bully you like that.”  Intractable and unforgiving.  The hardness in his voice was belied by the tenderness in his eyes.  “You’re better off without her, Martha.”

“I know,” she said sadly.  Once she had tried so hard to love Muriel and to fit back into a family that she barely knew. Yet it had finally come to this acrimonious parting of the ways. Only Sherlock was right, she hadn’t seen the last of her sister.  

 “It was true, what Muriel said though, wasn’t it?  I hadn’t thought of it before, but if I become incapacitated, if I can’t chose for myself then she’ll be the one who has the final say.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “She probably won’t even let you see me when I’m dying.”

“She couldn’t keep me away from you, no one could.” Sherlock wiped her tears away with his fingers. “Anyway, you won’t have to worry about her once we’re married. I’ll be your next-of- kin then.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you make it all sound so easy, but we can’t possibly get married. We’d be a laughing stock.”  Martha shivered. Muriel’s harsh words were coming back to haunt her.  Sickening. Grotesque.  And Muriel wasn’t alone in her opinions. 

Sherlock tilted her chin up, so that she had to look into his eyes.  “Don’t waste whatever time you have left worrying about what other people think of you.” 

“I worry about what they think of you, love.” Martha laid her hand on his cheek. “Especially as you’re the one who’ll have to face all the flack after I’m gone. People can be so spiteful, so judgemental and in a way it isn’t hard to understand. Look at you, all young and handsome, and look at me.  Is it any wonder that people think it’s strange for us to be together?”

“I don’t give a damn what people think.” 

“I know you don’t, but if my own family can be so hateful, if even John’s against us now, can you imagine what they’ll be like if we announce that we’re getting married?  They’ll have us both certified.”

“They can threaten and bluster, but what can anyone say that they haven’t already said about us?” Sherlock kissed her damp cheek and then her lips. “And once it’s done you’ll be safe from your sister’s meddling.”

“There must be some other way to get them to leave us in peace,” said Martha without any real conviction.  “You can’t marry me. It wouldn’t be fair on you.”

“Yes, it would.” Sherlock held her close. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, a little rapid, a little ragged and there was a tremor in the hand that stroked over her hair.  “I need to know that you’re mine…that…” He rested his cheek on the crown of her head. “Oh, fuck, I’m useless at this.”

“No, you’re not, not at all.” Martha sat back so that she could see his face.  “I don’t deny that I’m tempted, that there’s a part of me that’s thrilled to bits by the idea, but –“

“Then do it. Say yes.”

She had to refuse him, to harden her heart to his eager, anxious expression. It was just a madcap, spur of the moment thing. Sherlock would get over it.  She would too. If it all got a bit much she could always just lock herself in the loo and have a bloody good cry afterwards.

And wouldn’t Muriel just love that?

Only it wasn’t about her.  It was Martha’s life, Martha’s choice.  

 She rested her cheek on Sherlock’s, warm, alive, a faint prick of stubble under her skin.  One last hurrah. Going down in a blaze of glory. “How can I say yes when you haven’t even asked me to marry you?”

“I did.” Sherlock looked adorably confused.  “Didn’t I?”

“You said ‘we’ll get married’ which isn’t exactly the same thing. A girl likes to be asked properly.”

“Oh, do you want me to…” Sherlock pointed at the floor.

“Don’t be daft.”

“Well, will you?”

“Oh, go on then. Yes. I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.”

*

Martha was sure that she had all the documents and that the brown envelope was safely stashed away in her handbag. Still it wouldn’t hurt to check just one more time. It was twenty to three and the appointment to book their marriage was at half past. Plenty of time yet. The registry office was only a few streets away, just as long as she didn’t have to go and drag Sherlock out of the lab at Barts. 

No, she wouldn’t do that, if he was late, if he got cold feet, it might just be all for the best.  That girl at Barts was obviously very taken with him. She‘d be upset when she discovered that he was getting married and Molly was such a nice girl.   Although Martha didn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their days cutting up dead people.  

She didn’t want to think about death.  Not now. Not today.  

Today was meant to be a happy day. At least she’d made the place look nice, all spick and span. Martha surveyed her handiwork, hoovering done, the surfaces that weren’t cluttered with Sherlock’s books and papers dusted and all the cushion covers nicely washed.  

Not that the living room at 221B was used much now. She and Sherlock stayed downstairs most of the time and John was usually either out or upstairs in his bedroom. Martha rolled her eyes. He was up there now, sulking like a teenager.  Perhaps John would come round in time, but she imagined that he would have a few choice things to say when he found out that they were getting married.

There was no point thinking about that either. It was time to put a comb through her hair, do her lippy, nip to the loo and make sure that the back door was locked. 

Martha shut the living room door behind her and started down the stairs. She wasn’t sure what happened next, only that one minute she was walking and the next she was falling. Martha shrieked in alarm, trying desperately to keep her balance. Her ankle twisted under her and she made a wild grab for the banister. She saw her fingers scrabble on the polished wood and then her right arm slammed into the wooden post at the bottom of the stairs.

She cried out again. The jarring, shuddering pain made her feel sick.

“Mrs Hudson, are you all right?” John stood at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, yes, it’s nothing to fuss about.”  Her arm throbbed viciously, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted John’s help, not after the way he had treated them.

“What happened?”

“Nothing much, I just slipped and hit my arm.” Martha tried to smile. 

“Let me see that.”

“It’s all right.” She cradled the injured arm to her chest. “I’m just a bit shaken, that’s all.”

“I still think that I should look at it.” John took her arm gently. “Can you turn your hand over for me?”

Martha did as she was asked. The back of her hand was mottled and red.  It made her feel queasy and it hurt like hell. “I’m sure it’s nothing to fuss about, John.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” John frowned. “Roll your sleeve up, so I can take a proper look at it.”

There was a long scrape halfway to her elbow and the area around her wrist had already started to bruise. 

“I’d take your watch off in case it starts to swell up,” suggested John. He put an impersonal, professional arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you sat down and I’ll decide what to do with you.”

Martha knew that John meant well, but his choice of words irked her. Sometimes it seemed that there were people queuing up to make her decisions for her. “Well, you had better decide quickly because I’ve got an appointment.”

“If you haven’t got one at A&E that is,” retorted John. Then he spoke in a gentler tone. “You might have a fracture.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want a broken arm.”  She looked at John with despair in her eyes. “I don’t have time to have a broken arm.”  It would take weeks for it to mend, weeks of plaster casts and restricted movement, weeks that were too precious for her to waste.

“It’s just a possibility.” John guided her towards her kitchen. “I’ll be able to tell a bit more in a better light, but it would need an x-ray to be absolutely sure either way.”

Once she was seated on the sofa John pushed her sleeve back up to her elbow. He turned her arm this way and that. John prodded it gently and apologised when he made her wince.

“That’s okay.” Martha waited a moment. “Well, what’s the verdict, doctor?”

John sat back and lowered her hand carefully onto her lap. “It isn’t swollen, you can move it okay and there’s no obvious deformity. I think you might have just got away with it. Expect some pretty spectacular bruising though. You’re going to look as if you’ve been in a fight tomorrow.”

“I feel as if I’ve been in one most of the time. If it isn’t my sister and brother-in-law it’s you or Mrs Turner, or the woman in the paper shop sniggering behind my back.” Martha flexed her stiff and aching fingers. “We used to be friends once, John.”

John had the grace to look shamefaced. “We still are,” he said quietly.

“And Sherlock?”

“Yeah, him too.” John gave her a tentative smile. “Do you want to phone him?”

Martha shook her head. “It’s all right. He’d only worry and he should be home very soon.” She looked at the clock. “At least I hope he will be, we’re supposed to be there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Be where?”

“You won’t like it. We’ve an appointment to see the registrar. We’re getting married.” She saw John’s face. “No, not this afternoon, silly.” Trust a man to think that she would wear this simple dress to her own wedding. “It’s just a preliminary appointment to check the paperwork and set the date and such like…well, for heaven’s sake say something, even if it’s only get lost.”

John looked astounded. “I don’t know what to say.  I’m still getting my head around the idea of the two of you…isn’t it a bit soon to be thinking about marriage? I mean it’s only about three weeks since you…went to Brighton.”

“If circumstances were different then I’d agree with you, marry in haste and repent at leisure and all that. I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but I’ve never wanted Sherlock to feel obligated.” Martha could see how sceptical John looked. “You probably think that it’s a ridiculous idea, but it’s what we both want.   And if people make spiteful remarks and laugh at us, well, the joke’s on me…" She was suddenly, horridly afraid that she was going to burst into tears. “I’m the one who’s old and ill. I’m the one who’s dying.  Time’s running out on me and I want forever to be with him, twenty years at least and I’ll be lucky if I’ve got twenty weeks.”

 “Mrs Hudson…please, don’t cry.” John patted her hand awkwardly.   “I know it isn’t easy to accept –“

The front door slammed shut.

“Martha?” Sherlock’s call echoed down the hallway.

“In here, love.” She wiped her eyes quickly.

He came into the room like a whirlwind and to her surprise Mycroft was hot on his heels. 

“We’d better hurry or –“ Sherlock stopped for a split second and a moment later he dropped to his knees next to the sofa. “Oh god, what happened? Why didn’t you phone me?”  He stared in horror at the red and purple bruising on her arm. 

“It’s nothing. I lost my footing on the stairs. These new shoes I expect, that’ll teach me to be so vain, but John says that there’s nothing broken.”  Martha touched his cheek fleetingly, in lieu of the kiss she would have given him if they had been alone. “I’m fine, honestly I am.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock pulled himself up onto the sofa next to her.  He took her uninjured hand in his. 

Martha squeezed his fingers. The poor love looked so very anxious. “I just banged my arm, that’s all.”  She looked at Mycroft. He was as pristine and proper as ever, but she refused to wither under his scrutiny.  “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I hope you don’t mind my calling in uninvited. One doesn’t always feel the need to stand on ceremony, especially not under the circumstances.” 

“Of course I don’t mind.”  Martha didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t that Mycroft intimidated her, not a bit of it, but she had no real idea where she stood with him. 

John’s expression said ‘supercilious git’.  He caught Martha’s eye. “If you marry Sherlock, you’ll have him for a brother-in-law.”

Martha was delighted that John could actually joke about it. “I’ll just have to put up with him, won’t I?”

Mycroft looked affronted as well as badly out of place in her flowery living room.  Martha hoped that she hadn’t antagonised him too much.  He was hardly likely to be pleased by his brother’s choice of bride as it was.  

Sherlock was obvious enjoying the banter, but his expression darkened when his gaze fell on her injured arm.  He turned to John. “Are you certain that it isn’t broken?”

“As certain as I can be without packing her off to A&E for an x-ray.”

“No body’s packing me off anywhere,” said Martha firmly.  Her arm ached dreadfully, but she smiled at Sherlock. “You’re meant to be making an honest woman of me, remember?  We can just about make that appointment with the registrar if we hurry.”

“Forget the appointment.” Sherlock reached for his mobile. “I’ll cancel it and re-book for tomorrow or the next day, whenever you feel well enough.”

“I feel well enough now.” Martha took the phone out of Sherlock’s hand. The thought of missing their appointment hurt a lot more than her stupid arm did. “Give me two minutes to tidy myself up a bit while you lock up for me and call us a taxi.”

“There’s no need for you to bother with a taxi,” said Mycroft. “I’ll have my chauffeur drive you to the registry office. I’m sure that they won’t object if you’re five minutes late.”

“Thank you.”  Martha was sincerely grateful for the offer of a lift. 

Sherlock wasn’t. “It’s your fault that we’re late anyway.” He scowled at Mycroft. “How long does it take you to sign a few trivial documents?”

“Oh, they were quite unimportant.” Mycroft’s tone implied the opposite. “Obviously I should have dropped everything to accede immediately to your demands. Not that I’m responsible for the delay at the City and Suburban bank.”

Martha wondered why they had gone to the bank and she saw the same curiosity reflected in John’s eyes, but there wasn’t time to ask questions.  She bit her lip and tried not to flinch when Sherlock helped her into her coat.  The pain in her arm was so severe that she thought she might have broken a bone.  Something of her distress must have shown on her face though because Sherlock tackled the buttons for her.

Sherlock looked across at John who watched them with a slight smile. “What’s so amusing?”

John’s grin widened. “Whatever happened to married to your work?”

“She did.” Sherlock looked positively bashful. “Thanks for looking after her for me.”  He held out his right hand to John and they re-established their friendship with a brief handshake.

It did Martha’s heart good to see them grin sheepishly at one another. She had never wanted to cause trouble between them.  Mycroft watched impassively.  At least he wasn’t screaming blue murder like her relatives had done.  That was probably way beneath his dignity.  

“We’re better get going.” Sherlock offered her his arm. 

They were really going to do this.  Martha felt exhilarated and terrified all at the same time. She didn’t doubt that they would cause a bit of a stir at the registry office, but those people didn’t matter. Muriel mattered, but Martha knew in her heart that the estrangement was permanent.  John mattered and he was smiling, even Mycroft was being amenable.  Above all else there was the man who looked at her as if she was precious and special. Sherlock Holmes. The man she was going to marry. Martha decided that it was time to start counting her blessings. 

*

John and Mycroft watched the sleek black Bentley pull away from the curb. As it turned the corner and disappeared into the traffic John noticed that it didn’t have any number plates. He shut the front door. 

“You don’t actually approve of this, do you?” he asked Mycroft.

“Do you sincerely think that my disapproval would be sufficient to dissuade Sherlock? If anything the reverse would be true.  He’s set on this marriage and once Sherlock makes his mind up there’s nothing that will change it.  You would not believe how stubborn and wilful he was as a child, It used to drive poor mummy to distraction.”

“Do you think that your mumm – mother has anything to do with all this?” The question sounded awkward and felt clumsy.  Yet John knew that this was his one chance to ask the only person who could answer it, if he chose to do so. 

Mycroft gave him a sharp look “Does he have some sort of Oedipus complex? Did mummy love him too much or not nearly enough?  No, I think not. Let us just say that if either of us were to be so affected it would not be Sherlock.”

“Well, that wasn’t the answer I expected,” admitted John.   

“It is inconvenient when people refuse to be pigeonholed, isn’t it?” Mycroft reached into his pinstriped jacket and drew out a silver cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Do you mind if I get lung cancer?”

Mycroft lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring up at the hall ceiling. “The age gap doesn’t concern me and I have no interest, salacious or otherwise in my brother’s private life. It was always possible that he might decide to join our sex obsessed society, albeit rather late in the day. What I did not envisage was that he would become so emotionally...entangled.”

“Tell me about it. It was the last thing I expected and it still seems bloody surreal.”

“It must have been difficult for you to be so abruptly supplanted in his affections.  No, I’m not suggesting that you wanted to sleep with Sherlock or even with the remarkable Mrs Hudson.”  When John didn’t laugh at his little joke Mycroft continued. “Merely that you were as thick as thieves, going everywhere and doing everything together and then….” Mycroft spread his hands.  “It is quite understandable that you should be both jealous and insecure.”

“I’m not…” John knew that Mycroft had hit the nail squarely on the head. “Okay, so it’s not something that I’m particularly proud of.”

“You still have time enough to make amends.” Mycroft finished his cigarette and since there wasn’t an ashtray he threw the dog end out into the street.

“You can get fined for doing that.”  John leant on the bannister. “Aren’t you even going to try and stop them?”

“I am not. It is not the marriage that concerns me.  If you ask Sherlock he will tell you that it is a means to an end. That by marrying Mrs Hudson he becomes her legal next-of-kin and so prevents her obnoxious relatives having the final say when she is in extremis.”

John frowned. “An advance medical directive or a power of attorney would accomplish exactly the same thing.”

“Obviously and of course Sherlock knows it,” said Mycroft, “but if either of us were to point it out then he would have to find another excuse to marry her. I think that this one will suffice, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.” John knew damn well that this was no marriage of convenience. “He's nuts about her and that’s what really worries you, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock has never dealt well with disappointment and he is in some respects fragile. I fear that his inevitable bereavement will have unfortunate consequences.”

“He loses her and he crashes and burns in spectacular fashion?”  John could see how that might happen and the prospect filled him with dread. “You’re afraid that he’ll start using drugs again, aren’t you?”

Mycroft half reached for his cigarette case.  Then his hand clenched into a fist at his side. “If you had known him at his worse, when all that mattered was procuring his supply, when he was killing himself by inches then you would understand the reason for my anxiety.”  He glanced at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen door. “He treated us appallingly, all of us, even her and yet she stood by him.”

“Did you?” asked John quietly.

“No, I abandoned him to his fate.”  

John first flash of anger was replaced by an unexpected sympathy for Mycroft. “It’s never easy, is it? My sister’s an alcoholic and I’ve tried…but god, some of the things that she’s done.”  He looked Mycroft straight in the eye. “There’s nothing you could tell me about Sherlock that would surprise or shock me. Been there, done that and I’ve got the bloody scars to prove it.”

“We are all scarred, all bleeding, all dying.”  

“There’s a cheerful thought.” John’s smile was bitter and sad. He had seen so much of pain and death. It still shuddered in his nightmares. 

They both realised that they had said more, revelled more, than either of them ever intended to do. 

“How the hell did we get into this conversation?” asked John.

“We were discussing my brother’s upcoming nuptials.” Mycroft’s urbane mask slipped back into place. “My car should be back to collect me very shortly. Perhaps you would ask Sherlock to phone me with the date and time of the ceremony?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Neither of them wanted to say anything further and they lingered in silence until Mycroft’s car arrived. Once they had exchanged a polite, stilted good-bye John went wearily up to the flat.

He made himself a coffee and slumped in front of the blank eye of the TV screen. Memories gnawed at the corners of his mind, addicts he had seen, patients he hadn’t been able to save.   He turned the telly on and tried to lose himself in a mindless game show.  The contestants giggled and blundered their way through simple tasks.  Bloody idiots the lot of them, but hadn’t be been a bigger fool?  Who the hell was he to stump around passing moral judgements?   

A sense of shameful embarrassment filled him.  He’d been a right prat these past weeks, sulking and snaring. Pathetically scared of losing his friends he had almost succeeded in driving them away. As if they didn’t have enough to cope with, well he’d just have to try and do better from now on.

The game show was almost over when the front door opened.  John heard Sherlock’s cheerful voice and Mrs Hudson’s laughter.  He smiled, warmed by their happiness for the first time. The tight knot of pain inside him dissolved and John found that he could be pleased for them.  

*

Martha yawned and stretched her toes under the cosy blankets. “You weren’t shy ten minutes ago.”  Her limbs were heavy and she was more than ready for sleep, but he had piqued her curiosity. 

“I’ve got something for you,” said Sherlock.

His embarrassed, awkward look was quite charming and she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Something _else_?”

Sherlock laughed. “Yes, you’ve have got it sooner if you hadn’t seduced me with those come hither eyes of yours.”

“Me seduce you? I’m just a little old lady with a poorly arm.” Martha regretted mentioning her arm the instant his smile vanished.  “Though you did manage to make me forget all about it for a while.”  She stroked his face. “So, what have you got for me now?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Close your eyes and open your hand.”

She didn’t make a joke of it this time. Sherlock sounded far too tender and far too sincere for that. Martha felt unaccountably nervous. She felt the mattress move as he did and then she heard the scrape of the bedside drawer opening.  There was a weight on her palm and Sherlock closed her fingers over a little square object.

“You can open your eyes now, Martha.”

Even without looking Martha knew from the size and shape of the object that she held a ring box. She blinked up at him. “I didn’t expect you to buy me an engagement ring.”

“I didn’t buy it. It’s a family heirloom. I just had to get Mycroft to sign it out of the safety deposit box. That’s what all that bank stuff was about.”

When she looked at it Martha could see that it wasn’t new. The blue velvet box was faded and the gilt edging was scuffed. She ran her finger over the curve of the lid and now it was she who felt foolishly shy. 

“Open it,” Sherlock prompted her.

“Kiss me first.” She encircled her shoulders with her good arm. The other had been subdued with ibuprofen and sex to a mere dull ache. 

They kissed lazily, nestling down into the pillows. Martha still clutched the little box and when they separated just enough to smile at one another she opened her hand. “Shall I take a look?”

“Yes, go on.” Sherlock sat up a bit and draped his arm around her.

The ring was old and beautiful.

A cluster of rose-cut diamonds mounted in warm yellow gold.

“It’s known as the Vernet Ring,” said Sherlock, “as in the artist. His sister was my great, great something or the other grandmother. She brought it to England with her from France. It’s been passed down through the family ever since, always inherited by the eldest son, but then given to the first bride in each generation.”

“I’m hardly a bride.” Martha touched the glittering stones with a reverent finger. “Doesn’t Mycroft mind giving it up?”

“No, it’s been stuck in a vault for years and he’s got no intention of getting married, so it’s all yours.”

Martha handed him the box. “You do the honours, love, and let’s hope that it fits me.”

Sherlock slid the diamond ring onto her engagement finger. Then he gave her a quick smile. “Don’t get all tearful, this was meant to make you happy.”

“I am happy, silly.”  Martha sniffed.  The ring felt alien and heavy on her finger. It was just a trifle too tight, but it was stunning.  She snuggled into Sherlock’s shoulder and spread her fingers so that they could both admire it.

The ring had been made before the French Revolution to reflect and glitter in candlelight.  Immutable and unchangeable it shimmered in the light from the electric lamp. Martha turned her left hand this way and that, fascinated by the way the perfectly cut stones captured the light. As a little girl she had been enchanted by soap bubbles that glowed with transparent, ghostly colours. They had burst in a feather whisper of wind. The ring would sparkle with icy fire long after they were all dead. 

Martha looked at Sherlock and wished fervently, uselessly that he could stay forever as he was now, untouched by age and death.  

“Time doesn’t stop for anyone, does it?”  She kissed his warm cheek. Life was precious and fleeting. “It is beautiful though. I almost feel as if it should be in a museum somewhere, not here on my hand.”

“I wanted you to have it.” Sherlock lifted her chin so that he could kiss her lips. “Don’t be sad. It wasn’t meant to make you sad.”

“I’m not. It’s the loveliest thing.”  She gazed at the ring, at the eternal sparkle in the old stones. “For god’s sake just don’t tell me what it’s worth or I’ll be terrified of losing it.”

“It’s not as much as you might think, Mycroft had it valued at Christies few years ago and they said it was worth about nine thousand.”  

“Oh, is that all?”  Martha sighed contently and closed her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Sherlock enveloped her in a crushing hug.  She felt his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and she was going to be crying again in a moment. God, they were a sentimental pair.  

“There’s nothing else that I want,” she whispered into his dark hair. “Nothing at all.”

It was how she felt. There in his arms, warm and safe with the memory of their love-making a gentle lassitude in her limbs and his ring on her finger.  She might have wished for youth and life, but if the fates had offered her a choice between that and this she would have chosen him. Her beloved Sherlock. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was twenty-five to eleven.

And she wasn’t panicking.

Martha kept her gaze fixed on the television. David Attenborough was trekking across the Arctic.  He was older than she was and he was halfway to the North Pole without a care in the world.  Not that she had anything to worry about, Sherlock was absolutely fine. Why on earth shouldn’t he be?  He was perfectly capable of looking after himself and she was not going to turn into a fussy, clingy old woman.  

Twenty to eleven.

Martha glared at the phone on the coffee table, willing it to ring, but it stayed stubbornly silent.  There was a tight knot of anxiety inside her that not all the logic in the world could dispel. She touched the fading bruises on her right arm.  Ever since she had fallen on the stairs a week ago Sherlock had been more vigilant than ever about phoning to check on her.  It was always a proper call as well, never just a voice message or a text, although at this moment she would have been grateful for either.  He was probably just busy, but it wasn’t like him not to phone. Especially as he knew John wasn’t coming back from that medical conference in Bristol until tomorrow. 

Ten to eleven.  Nearly eight hours without a single word.

She had already moved through irritated and angry and onto desperately worried.    

Martha lit a cigarette when the documentary finished at eleven.  She smoked it rapidly, but it did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves.  There probably wasn’t any harm in just giving him a quick call.  It was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, wasn’t it? She was his fiancée after all. Martha snatched up the phone before she could change her mind, but it went straight to voicemail.   

“Hello, love, it’s me…I just wondered if you wanted any supper or… I know it’s silly, but I’m worried about you, Sherlock.  Just give me a quick ring to let me know that you’re all right.”

Martha immediately wished that she could delete the message, but it was too late for that now.   Sherlock would think that she was being over-anxious.   He certainly wasn’t obliged to keep ringing her. It was just that he always did.  So why in heaven’s name hadn’t he called?  Something was wrong, something had to be wrong. What if he’d been in an accident? Or run into some unsavoury character? It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enemies.  

Ten past eleven.

Sherlock hadn’t returned her call and she was starting to feel sick with nerves.  This felt all wrong. He wouldn’t worry her like this on purpose.  And he wouldn’t just forget to phone, no matter how engrossed he was in a case. People might make snide remarks behind their backs, but Martha knew that he loved her. He wouldn’t let her down, not on purpose, not if he could help it.

So something was wrong and she had better do something about it.  Martha considered ringing John, but there wasn’t much that he could do stuck down in Bristol.  After a couple of minutes of dithering she dialled Lestrade’s number. She half hoped that he would tell her that she was wasting his time, but Lestrade took her fears seriously and that made her feel even worse.

She had boiled the kettle four times and dropped half a packet of biscuits on the floor by the time Lestrade rang the doorbell.  He accepted a cup of tea she suspected that he didn’t really want and asked her a lot of questions.  Unfortunately Martha didn’t have a lot of answers for him.  Sherlock had told her that he going to Notting Hill to interview a man who had been accused of murdering his step-daughter, but he hadn’t mentioned an actual address. 

 “I’m sorry.  I can’t tell you anything else.” Martha felt useless and inadequate.

“Don’t worry about it. My missus always complains that I never tell her where I’m going or what time I’ll be home.” Lestrade looked at the laptop on the table. “I don’t suppose that you know Sherlock’s password, do you?”

Martha did.

“I’d only have to get the IT guys to crack it if we didn’t do this,” said Lestrade.  He waited for the laptop to load up. “Not that he’ll be happy about me reading his emails, but it’s quicker this way.”

Martha sat opposite him. “You think that Sherlock’s in trouble, don’t you?”

“I think that it’s possible,” said Lestrade carefully. “I’ve seen Sherlock break off in the middle of an investigation to phone you. There’s something about this that just doesn’t feel quite right, so I’m going to see if I can find him for you. Mind you, he’d say that I couldn’t find my arse with a torch.” 

Martha smiled. “He might say it, but he wouldn’t mean it.”

Lestrade set to work on the emails while Martha watched him and tried not to get too worried. Well, no more worried than she was already. Her stomach was churning and she had a terrible headache.   What if…No, she mustn’t start thinking like that. Sherlock would be all right. He had to be all right.

“Does the name Roylett mean anything to you?” asked Lestrade. 

Martha thought hard, but she drew a blank. “No, I don’t remember Sherlock ever mentioning it to me.”

“Well, he’s the bloke with the dead step-daughter.”  Lestrade sighed. “It wasn’t my division so I’m going to have to give the yard a call and check a few facts, but it should be easy enough to get the guy’s address.  Roylett asked Sherlock to help him prove his innocence.  They must have had some other communication …yeah, Roylett refers to a phone call…I take it Sherlock’s got his mobile with him?”

“I wouldn’t have tried to phone him if he hadn’t. I’m not completely senile.”

“Sorry, stupid question.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Martha. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Forget it. I know that you’re worried.” Lestrade gave her a sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t be on your own. Why don’t I get a WPC to come and keep you company while I find out where Sherlock’s got to?”

“I don’t know if I feel up to dealing with a stranger and I’m not sure that a young girl would really understand.  God knows what she’ll make of all this, me, Sherlock, the wedding.”  Martha looked at the diamond ring on her left hand. If anything had happened to Sherlock there wouldn’t be a wedding. The Vernet ring would go back into its dusty bank vault and she would go down into her dusty grave with a broken heart. “If he…if anything…I don’t think I could bear it.”

 Lestrade patted her hand. “I’m sure that the irritating bugger’ll turn up in one piece.”

“No, you’re not. You’re worried about him as well, aren’t you?”

Lestrade sighed. “Yeah, just a bit, but don’t tell him I said so.” He closed the laptop. “I’m going to make tracks and pay that Roylett fellow a visit. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve got any news and I’ll have that WPC here in about twenty minutes.  She’s a nice girl, very level-headed and completely non-judgemental, so you’ll have no worries on that score.”

*

Martha was cold, so very cold. There was ice, an endless horizon of shimmering ice all smeared with blood. The nightmare didn’t release her easily. She struggled, dragging herself towards wakefulness. Sherlock. Oh God, Sherlock, where are you?

Someone had put a blanket over her and she tried to shrug off its enclosing folds.  She half-sat up on the sofa, blinking in the lamplight.

“Are you okay?” asked a friendly voice.

“What happened?” Martha felt groggy and exhausted. She pressed the heel of her hand to her throbbing temple. “What time is it?”

“You dozed off and it’s just gone four o’clock.”  The policewoman smiled at her. “Shall I stick the kettle back on for us?”

“Yes, please, dear.” Martha’s head was reeling and the savage dream images still lingered. She was never going to watch David Attenborough again.  “I suppose there’s no point asking if there’s any news?”

“Not at the moment. The DCI called about half an hour ago. They’re still looking for Roylett and for Sherlock, of course.”

Oh, heavens, what a mess. Lestrade had found Roylett’s address easily enough, but the house had been empty. There had been signs of a struggle though, with blood on the stairs. Blood on the ice. Martha shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. 

“Are you sure that you don’t want to see a doctor?”  

Martha could see that the young woman was concerned about her and she had been so sympathetic, with never a hint of derision.  Call me Sophie she had said when Lestrade introduced them. She had made Martha toast which had clung dry and brittle to the roof of her mouth. Somehow that made her Martha’s responsibility, which was absurd, but true nevertheless.  “I’ll just have another cup of tea. There’s not much a doctor can do anyway. I certainly don’t want a sedative, my head’s heavy enough as it is.”

Sophie didn’t look convinced, but much to Martha’s relief she didn’t push the issue.  When she brought the cups in from the kitchen she sat down opposite Martha, suppressing a yawn as she did so.

Ten past four.  Over thirteen hours.  

“It’s been a long night, hasn’t it?” said Martha.  The longest, cruellest night of her life and it wasn’t over yet.  Darkness pressed in at the windows and Sherlock was still missing.   Martha’s nerves were in tatters.  She reached for another cigarette; one advantage of terminal cancer was that you could ignore all the lurid warnings on the packets.  John still disapproved though, while Sherlock just smiled and lit one for himself. She ought to have nipped that in the bud. This terrifying, bone-crushing death was the last thing that she wanted for him. The very thought of it made her shudder, but he’d shrug in that elegant devil-may-care way of his, charming all the commonsense out of her, so that she could never bring herself to reproach him.  Sometimes it really did feel as if it was the two of them against the world. Dear god, whatever would she do without him? Die. Die and be thankful for it.

 “Are you all right, Mrs Hudson?” 

 “I’m fine, dear. I was just thinking.” 

Martha forced a smile, although she wished that she had held out against Lestrade’s offer of company. Sophie’s compassion was a sudden, raw irritation. She didn’t want to chat and put on a brave face, all she wanted was to be left alone. That wasn’t fair or kind, the poor girl meant well, even if she was only doing her job.  

Martha made an effort. “Have you got anyone waiting for you at home?” It seemed likely, Sophie was much the same delicate build as herself, but she still had the bloom of youth. It would be surprising if the pretty, blonde girl didn’t have a lover or a husband tucked away somewhere.

“If you had asked me that two months ago I’ve have said yes, but not anymore.” Tears filled Sophie’s eyes and then she lifted her chin defiantly.  “We were going to get married and then he dumped me.” 

Martha realised that it was the first time Sophie had put it so bluntly.  “I’m sorry, that must have been a terrible shock.” she replied, but she didn’t want to hear any more. She had enough troubles of her own and precious little empathy to spare for anyone else. Not now, not with her life balanced on a knife edge. All she wanted was for Sherlock to come home.

Martha yawned. “I think that I’ll have a little lie down, if you don’t mind, dear.”

“That’s probably a good idea” Sophie looked a bit hurt. 

Martha knew that she had been ready to bear her soul and she felt an unwanted pang of guilt.  She still kicked off her slippers and stretched out on the sofa.  She couldn’t face the bed, not without Sherlock, and she didn’t really intend to sleep. For an hour or two she dozed fretfully. The sofa was hard and uncomfortable, a spring nagged at her aching back and she couldn’t rest. Martha prayed desperately to a god that she wasn’t even sure she believed in, but her phone never rang. When daylight started to crawl in through the curtains Martha turned over so that her back was to the room and to Sophie. Only then did she let the tears slip silently down her cheeks. 

John arrived home at seven-thirty. He had caught the first train back from Bristol at ten to five in the morning. 

“You look as bad as I feel,” Martha told him and she felt pretty bad. She had slept heavily for two hours and woken up with a blinding headache. There was still no news and she hated herself for falling asleep. She should have stayed awake and kept vigil for Sherlock. He’d think that she didn’t care, that she didn’t love him. She must have said that to John because he told her gently not to be so silly. Then he suggested that she should take a mild sedative. Martha insisted that she didn’t want it and John finally let the matter drop.  

“We’ll see how you go,” he said, which translated into ‘if we don’t find Sherlock soon you’re having that sedative whether you want it or not’.

Once she knew – if it was the worse – she’d take it then and be grateful to slip away from all thought and feeling. It might not be like that though and if Sherlock was injured, hospitalised, he would need her. She had to try and keep a clear head for his sake. 

Not that there was anything she could do. She barely noticed when Sophie left, but when John came to ask if she’d be okay if he went with Lestrade she realised how totally useless she was. John might be able to help, to contribute something towards finding Sherlock. She could only wait and the waiting was killing her. 

*

He was filthy, dishevelled and unshaven, but Sherlock was alive. He buried his face in the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry,” he murmured and Martha started to sob. She clung to him and pressed her cheek against the top of his bowed head, so that her tears and her kisses flowed over his hair. Sherlock tightened his grip on her and his next words were a tiny half-sob of sound. “I love you.”

He whispered it again with his face hidden in her shoulder.  Martha wept helplessly and whispered words of love. Her voice was so torn and tear-broken it was a wonder that he understood anything she said, but his tender, almost bashful smile told her that he did. 

She touched the black swelling around his left eye. “Oh love, are you sure that you don’t need to see a doctor?” John had something about Sherlock refusing to go to A&E before he had left them alone in the hallway.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock kissed her. “Don’t look so scared. I’ve got a few bruises and couple of cracked ribs that they won’t even strap up if I do go to Barts, but it never even touched me.”

“It?”

“A venomous snake.”  Sherlock scowled. “It would have been my own fault if I had been bitten. I don’t know how I could have been so bloody stupid.”

“Why, what happened?” Martha tried to take it all in.  She had heard the front door open and a second later Sherlock called her name, a second that took her from despair to exhilaration. Now there was all this talk of snakes and Sherlock was blaming himself for whatever had happened to him. “Whatever it was I’m sure that wasn’t your fault.”

“You would be.” Sherlock kissed her forehead. “My sweet Martha.”

“Not always.” She remembered with a little stab of guilt how unsympathetic she had been to Sophie. “I’m not all sweetness and light, you know.”

“Very few people are.” 

His expression grew pensive and Martha touched his cheek gently. Not all the shadows under his eyes were bruises and he was very pale under all the dirt and stubble. “Tell me later, Sherlock. There’s no rush.  We can talk after you’ve had some food and some sleep, you look absolutely done in.” 

“I need to sort some things out for the case.” Sherlock looked around the hallway. “Where’s John?”

“Upstairs, being discreet.” Martha took his hand. “The case can wait. You can’t go chasing around Scotland Yard looking like that, you’ll spoil your image.”

Sherlock hugged her again, giving in with a little sigh of relief. “I am shattered,” he admitted. 

“I’m not surprised.” He felt tired and heavy-limbed, almost sagging against her.  Where ever he had been and whatever had happened to him over the past twenty-four hours he obviously hadn’t got any sleep. 

“And I’m a mess,” said Sherlock. “I can’t be very pleasant to be near at the moment, but I don’t want to let you go.”  He rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I don’t want to ever let you go.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”  Martha couldn’t bear the desolation in his voice. His grief broke her heart and she wrapped her thin arms around him. “Don’t love, we both know that –“

“That I need a shower.” His smile was too bright and too brittle. “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea either.”

Martha choked down the lump in her throat.  No more crying, no more sentiment, not when she had the miracle that she had prayed for. All that mattered was that he had come back to her, alive and relatively unscathed. 

She kissed his cracked lips. “I’d better get the kettle on then. You must be starving. I’ll get you something to eat while you’re in the shower. Nothing too heavy mind, not when you haven’t eaten since…”

“Yesterday lunchtime.” Sherlock grimaced. “Roylett wasn’t a very good host.”

“He sounds positively horrible.” What a stupid thing that was to say about a man who had tried to murder her darling Sherlock.  All those interminable hours of terror and misery could be laid at Roylett’s door.  “I hope he burns in hell,” she said viciously.

Her little show of spirit brought a smile to Sherlock’s face, one that was gentle and unfeigned. He tucked a strand of hair back behind her right ear and kissed her again. “That’s my girl,” he said with a chuckle.

His approval warmed her heart and she did not even protest that she was very far from being a girl.  “Let’s get that kettle on then, love.” 

*

Fresh tears sprung to Martha’s eyes when she saw the red and purple bruises that mottled his torso. “Oh, Sherlock, are you sure that you don’t need to go to hospital?”

He looked at her with such tenderness that she felt her heart melt. “I told you I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” The joke came out stressed and tear stained.  There was a tremor in her right hand and Martha put the cups down on the bathroom windowsill before she spilt tea all over the floor. 

“I promise.” Sherlock wasn’t joking. “Don’t worry, it looks a lot worse than it is and as I said it’s my own fault for being an idiot.” The sourness was back, marring the loving atmosphere.  “I just didn’t see it until it was too late.”

“What didn’t you see?” asked Martha. 

“The bloody obvious.” Sherlock kicked off his shoes and winced when he bent down to tug off his socks. “Roylett contacted me through the website. He was a suspect in a murder case. His step-daughter died two years ago under mysterious circumstances and the police were still sniffing around, looking for enough evidence to make a charge stick. He wanted me to prove his innocence, to get them off his back once and for all.”

Martha felt cold inside. “An innocence man doesn’t inflict those kinds of injuries on someone who’s trying to help him.”

Sherlock sighed. “No, he doesn’t. Everything seemed to stack up in his favour at first, the fibres on the curtains, the tyre tracks in the drive…it was the monkey that gave it away.”

“What monkey?”  Martha went over to Sherlock. She needed to be close to him right now. He enfolded her in his arms and she rested her forehead very carefully on his shoulder. His ribs and all those bruises must hurt like hell, not matter how much he tried to make light of his injuries.

“Roylett’s pet, a Macaque.” Sherlock kissed the top of her head. “He’s a dealer in exotic animals, unlicensed and black market as well as the legitimate trade, but that didn’t make him a murderer. The monkey did.  It screamed when it saw me. Roylett said that it always did that when it saw a stranger, but it hadn’t screamed on the night Julia Stoner died.”  Sherlock let out a long breath. “Roylett tried to fake it, but he knew that he’d given himself away.  He attacked me and we fought, crashing into tables and half-strangling each other. Roylett’s going to need some serious dental work, but he was six-foot-six of insanity. Finally he managed to overpower me and lock me in the store room with another of his pets.”

“You said that there was a snake?” Apprehension made Martha’s heart race. She needed him to tell her exactly what had happened to him because her imagination was conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios. 

“An Australian death adder, the same one he’d used to kill Julia in the very same room. There were marks of the door where she’d kicked and clawed at it in her panic. At some point she’d agitated the snake enough for it to strike.  I kept calm and still and it left me alone.”

“Thank god for that.” Martha stroked his cheek. “I know that you won’t admit it, not even to me, but it must have been absolutely nerve-racking.”

“Well, I wasn’t sorry to see John and Lestrade when they finally turned up at the warehouse.”  Sherlock kissed her palm. “They caught the snake, but Roylett had long gone.” 

“And good-riddance, let the police catch him, that’s what they’re paid for.”   Martha reached for Sherlock’s belt. “You finish getting undressed and have your shower while I get you something to eat. I’ve brought your pyjamas in for you.”

“Pyjamas? It’s mid-afternoon.”

“And you haven’t had any sleep since you got out of bed at six o’clock yesterday morning.”

“Have you?” asked Sherlock. “You look worn out, Martha.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be. I didn’t mean to, but I dozed off twice during the night. I’m sorry, love, this old body of mine doesn’t always comply…” She patted his arm. “Toast. Toast and eggs.”

 Sherlock held onto her when she tried to turn away before he could see that she was crying again. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.” He pressed his mouth to hers in the gentlest of kisses.  “Now what about that toast?”

That was her cue to leave him to his shower and his musings. She cut bread and scrambled eggs automatically.  There was something troubling Sherlock, something that had nothing to do with Roylett. She has seen the shadow of sorrow and shame in his eyes when he kissed her so tenderly. Well, there was no point fretting about it she would just have to see if she could coax it out of him over lunch or breakfast or whatever the hell it was they were eating.

Sherlock looked marginally better for a shave and a shower and she had to admit that he smelt sweeter. He sat down at the table with his hair hanging in wet curls and she had to resist the temptation to get a towel to dry it off with. 

“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

“A bit.” Sherlock held his hand to his side for a moment. “My ribs aren’t too happy though.”

“Well, there’s no point my banging on about doctors, but have a couple of ibuprofen at least.”

“Or one of your herbal soothers?” 

“Oh, go on then, I can spare you just one.” 

Martha got the pill for him and watched him swallow it with some tea. Heavens knows what John would say if he knew.  She wasn’t really hungry and she picked half-heartedly at her eggs while she watched Sherlock tuck in.  Another cigarette wouldn’t come amiss, but if she had one then so would he. She poured herself some more tea instead and leant across to refill his cup. 

“Thanks.” Sherlock put his knife and fork down. “This isn’t the first time that I’ve turned up here in a mess and you’ve fed me, is it?”

So that was what was worrying him. 

November 2006. Sherlock was all skin and bone. She could feel his ribs when she hugged him. The rain had plastered his hair to his head and he shook in her embrace. Then he launched into some cock and bull story about how he just happened to be passing.  Martha didn’t point out that it was nearly midnight. Sherlock looked terrible, bedraggled and exhausted.  She sat him down next to the gas fire with a blanket around his shaking shoulders.  Martha gave him something to eat and drink. Then she offered to wash and mend his filthy clothes. He could take a bath and sleep on her sofa bed, and in the morning she’d see if she could get him an appointment with her doctor.

But she wouldn’t give him money for drugs.

“I saved your fucking life,” he had snarled at her.

“That doesn’t mean that I have to help you ruin yours,” she snapped back.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, all hunched over and shivering. “Please…it hurts…”

“I can’t…” She felt so much compassion for him that her resolve wavered, but she just couldn’t help him to commit slow suicide.  Martha reached out tentatively. She half-expected him to push her away, but the second her hand touched his hair Sherlock turned and clung to her. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Then Sherlock looked up at her with tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She gave him a watery smile. “I’ll go and get those sheets for you.”

The airing cupboard was upstairs. When she came back he had gone and so had her purse.

Now Sherlock’s eyes were bleak and full of guilt.

“Oh, love, it doesn’t –“

“Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter because it does.”

“Not to me, not anymore.”  Martha reached across the table and took his hand. “Do you really think that we’d be here, like this, if it did? It wasn’t an easy thing to come to terms with, but I forgave you long ago.” 

“You must have hated me that night.”  Sherlock held her hand tightly, but he kept his gaze fixed on the plate of congealing eggs. “When you realised what I’d done, how I’d betrayed your trust…”

Martha wanted to wriggle away from the truth, only she knew that he’d recognise a lie instantly.  “I never hated you, but I was bloody furious with you and livid with myself for being so naïve and gullible.”

Sherlock’s head came up sharply. “It wasn’t premeditated. I never planned to steal from you. I just saw your purse there on the worktop and it was the answer to everything. An easy way to get the drugs my body was screaming out for, only in the end it wasn’t easy at all.”

“It certainly wasn’t for me,” said Martha. “I felt such a fool, but it’s all done and dusted now.“ She squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  “Let it go, love, you were in such a terrible state that night. It broke my heart to see you like that and I tried to help you, but the craving was just too strong.”

“You did help me, more than you ever knew.”  Sherlock kissed her hand and held it to his cheek.  He closed his eyes and she saw the glint of tears on his eyelashes. “You certainly weren’t the only person I stole from, strangers were fair game and if John had been around then he would have been as well. I even pinched Mycroft’s wallet twice, but you were the only one I had a conscience about. I’d stolen from the one person who cared if I lived or died and I loathed myself for it.  It made me realise that I couldn’t sink much lower, that I had to either get out or go under.” 

“What did you do?”  She hadn’t seen him for nineteen months and then a very different Sherlock had turned up out of the blue.  Clean, neat and wearing expensive clothes he had looked marvellous. For one insane moment she had wanted to kiss him, like a young girl welcoming her long lost lover home.  “We’ve never discussed it and I’ve often wondered if you even remembered that night.”

“I’ve never forgotten it, but I’ve always been too ashamed to even apologise to you.” Sherlock blinked away his tears and looked directly into her eyes. “Mycroft had washed his hands of me, but I swallowed whatever scraps of pride I had left and went to see him.  I told him what I’d done to you. That I hated what I’d become, that I wanted to get off drugs and that I needed his help to do it.  Mycroft said that he’d give me one last chance, but that if I blew it this time he wouldn’t even send flowers to my funeral.  I had to co-operate and I did, all because of you.”

“Then it was worth every penny that was in that purse a million times over.”  Martha bit her lip. She wasn’t going to start crying again. It was all she ever did lately. Kleenex would probably go out of business when she died.  

“Now I’ve made you cry again.”

“I’m all right.” She sniffed loudly and then giggled. “Heavens, I’m a mess.”  Martha brushed the back of her hand over his unshaven cheek. “I was so afraid that something dreadful had happened to you, but you’re here and that’s all that matters.”

Sherlock tried to smile for her. He tugged on her hand. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Two paces and she cupped his upturned face in her hands.  Sherlock’s eyes were wide and luminous, on the very edge of weeping and she bent her head to kiss away his unshed tears.  All forgiven. All reconciled.  

“I love you,” she whispered.  

“Then you’re a fool.” Sherlock’s tiny self-disparaging laugh was followed by a fierce hug. He encircled her waist and rested his head on her breast.  Martha stroked his hair just as she had done all those years ago.  Only it was different now, soft and newly washed, not full of sticky dirt and rank with the odours of the gutter.  They were both different now and yet her heart had not changed.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said. “Ever since that first day in Florida.  I just never let myself think it, never let myself feel it. What would I have been if I had? Just a pathetic old woman hankering after a beautiful young man.”  She kissed the top of his head. “I never dreamt…never imagined that you would ever love me. That’s worth living for, Sherlock, and in the end it’s worth dying for too.”

“That is the most illogical, sentimental…” He burrowed into her warmth. “Don’t leave me, Martha.”

“If I could stay with you…what choice do I have? What choice do any of us have?” She tightened her grip on his shoulders, holding on to him with all the strength in her frail body. “You’re so tired, love. I can feel how exhausted you are. Why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep?”  

That was what it was, wasn’t it? Sleep eternal. She’d never wake up, never see him again.  A sudden, suffocating terror swept over her.  She whimpered and that sound of distress made Sherlock look up her anxiously. 

“What’s wrong?” He stood up and put his arms around her. “Did you remember to take your pills this morning/”

“John made sure that I did.” Martha rested her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m just cold…scared. I think I’m having a bit of a reaction.” She nestled into him and his sharp intake of breath cut into her. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting my weight on you like this.”

“Hush, stay close.”  Sherlock kissed her lips. “Never mind about me, I’m the one who ought to be looking after you. That arm of yours isn’t right yet.”

“It’s getting there. It just aches a bit sometimes.” She brushed the back of her index finger over his cheekbone, just below his bruised and swollen black eye. “We’ve both been in the wars, love.”

“And you look as tired as I feel.” Sherlock took both her hands in his. “Come and lie down with me, Martha. I think that we could both do with some sleep.”  He grimaced. “I think that we had better swop sides though otherwise you’ll be lying on my cracked ribs.”

Martha knew damn well that his ‘cracked’ ribs were broken and that he was playing down the extent of his injuries so as not to worry her. It was in the same league as her dreadfully painful ‘achy’ arm.  They really were a pair, both pretending to be fooled by each others well intentioned deceptions.  

She squeezed his hands and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll try to keep to my half of the bed.”

“Don’t you dare.”  Sherlock touched her forehead, fingertips soothing over her skin and carding through her hair. “I want to hold you.”

That was an invitation she couldn’t refuse.  

Bed was warm and comforting, and Sherlock’s arms were even more so. She was asleep in moments. 

*

The streetlights were just coming on when they woke up, rolling lazily into a cosy embrace.   Martha rested her head on Sherlock’s shoulder and was comforted by the steady rhythm of his breathing. This time last night she had just started to worry about him.  Now he was here, warm and safe in their bed.   She traced the line of Sherlock’s collar bone under the white pyjama top, stopping where bruises marred his skin.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

 “Better.”  He slipped his arm around her slender shoulders. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, you haven’t.”   Martha stretched and settled more snuggly against his side. “What about, love?”

“About the work, I’ve decided to give it up.”

“What? Don’t be so bloody stupid.”  She sat bolt upright, so that she could see his expression.  Sherlock his I’ve-made-my-mind-up face on and she braced herself for an argument.  “Is this because you made a mistake about Roylett or is it because of me?”

“Both” Sherlock traced the shape of her face with his long, sensitive fingers. “I made a mess of it with Roylett because my mind wasn’t focused on the case. The mystery was less important than solving it quickly so that I could come home to you.  If I give up the work for now then we can be together all the time.”

“That’d be lovely, but…”  The siren song of temptation echoed in her head. Sherlock would be safe, not more abductions, no more beatings.  He would be with her for every precious minute she had left to live, her constant companion.  Only she couldn’t let him make that sacrifice for her, not if she really loved him.  “We’d drive each other bonkers.”

“We wouldn’t –“

“Yes, we would.” Martha knew how easy it would be to let him talk her round.  “That marvellous mind of yours craves simulation and without it you sink into a black depression, shooting holes in the wall and scraping away on your violin for hours on end.”

“That was before I had you.”

She let herself be drawn back into his arms, until she lay with her head on his chest.  Martha closed her eyes.  “Oh, Sherlock, you can’t just sit around with me all day, watching rubbish on the telly and pushing a trolley round the supermarket.  That’s no life for you.  You’re still young and you’re a bloody genius to boot. The tedium will eat into you and in the end you’ll resent me for it.”  

“It won’t be like that.” There was an impatient edge to Sherlock’s voice. “All I want is to be with you.”

Accept it. Believe him, but she knew that it wasn’t quite true. She would never be enough to fill all the dull hours of a mundane day. He needed to soar, to fly high above the ordinary and commonplace.  Martha bit her lip, more tears wouldn’t help.  “But you need your work and if you abandon it for my sake then I’m just going to end up feeling guilty.”

“It’s my choice.” Sherlock cupped her face in his hands, so that they were eye to eye. “You’ve nothing to feel guilty about, nothing at all.”

“Well, I do and I won’t let you do this, not when I know that it’s wrong for you.”

They argued.  The first real, bitter quarrel that they had ever had, complete with recriminations and frosty silences.  Martha locked herself in the bathroom to have a little weep while she dragged a comb through her hair and pulled an old dress on. She didn’t want to sit around in her nightie, it smacked too much of illness and death.  

Martha took no notice of Sherlock, who sulked in front of the TV, still wearing his pyjamas just to annoy her.  She threw the washing up into the sink, cleaned up the soapy water that splashed everywhere and threw the pieces of her favourite mug into the bin.  Then she thumped the cushions into shape with unnecessary vigour.  Sherlock stubbornly ignored her display of temper and they still weren’t speaking when John knocked on the kitchen door. 

John refused the cup of tea Martha offered him out of politeness. “It’s okay, I’ve got a lasagne spinning round in the microwave upstairs. I just nipped down to tell you that Lestrade phoned me-“

“Why you and not me?” demanded Sherlock.

“He thought that you might need a little recuperation time. Any way you can forget about Roylett, he washed up under Chertsey Bridge a couple of hours ago. There’s no official ID as yet, but there’s no doubt that it’s him. Lestrade says that from the look of the body he’s been in the water for about twenty-four hours. So he must have thrown himself in the Thames right after he locked you in that storeroom. I guess he knew that the game was up.”

Martha sunk down on the arm of the sofa. Roylett’s suicide meant that there was no possibility of him ever coming after Sherlock again. However irritated she was with him at the moment that was a blessed relief. “I’m not sorry,” she confessed. 

“Me either,” said John. He looked at Sherlock. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Roylett’s suicide was predictable, one last dramatic gesture.” Sherlock tilted his head back so that he was frowning at the ceiling. “He was a dull, unoriginal man with delusions of grandeur, but I still managed to screw up.”

John looked over at Martha. “Perhaps you had other things on your mind.”

“He did,” said Martha, “and we’ve already had this conversation.”

“Maybe I should just go back to my lasagne. I thought that you two would be all loved up, but you could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.” John waited, but either of them said anything. “Okay, I guess that it's nothing to do with me.”

“Well, I think that it is,” said Martha. She turned to Sherlock. “If you insist on giving up work it's going to affect John. Just think how many of your cases he's been involved in and what about his blog? He won't have anything to write about.”

Sherlock glared at her. “Then he'll just have to find something else to do, won't he?”

“Thanks very much.” John folded his arms. “Is anyone going to tell me what this is all about? “

Martha bit her tongue. It was for Sherlock to explain his reasons, not her. She got up and sat down again on the sofa. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee and ignored them both. Then he suddenly unfolded his long limbs and strode past John. He grabbed his mobile and threw it to John who caught it neatly in his left hand. 

“Message from Roylett, take a look and tell me if it isn't obviously a pack of lies. Well, he fooled me easily enough. I thought that he was innocent. Put that on the blog.”

John sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that it's going to be a long night?” He turned a chair around and sat astride it. “Nobody's infallible, not even the great Sherlock Holmes. Don't let a lunatic with a poisonous snake throw you off your stride, you're bleeding brilliant and you know it.”

“Venomous,” said Sherlock. “Snakes are venomous, not poisonous.”

“Now you're just avoiding the issue,” said Martha. “It's not just about Roylett, John. It's about me.”

“That’s understandable. Sherlock’s bound to want to spend as much time as he can with you.” 

Trust John to take Sherlock’s side. Now he’d made her feel as if she was the ungrateful, unreasonable one. “I do appreciate that, but I don’t want him to throw his career away and I don’t want him to be fed-up and miserable because of me. Come on, John, you know what he’s like when he’s bored.”

“Don’t I just,” said John with a wry smile. He leant forward with his hands clasped between his knees. “Okay, I can see this from both sides. One thing’s for sure though there’s no point the two of you falling out because you’re both trying too hard to do what’s best for the other one. Can’t you just reach a compromise on this?”

“How?” demanded Sherlock. “I can’t half give up the work, can I?”

“Yeah, you can actually,” said John immediately. “Drop the private clients and only take on the cases that Lestrade and the Met bring to you. They're usually the most interesting ones anyway. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect to me,” said Martha. There was a bright smile on Sherlock's face and an echo of relief in his eyes. It would be a wrench for him to give up his investigations no matter how much he insisted that he only wanted to be with her. She smiled back at him. Her irrational disappointment didn’t matter as long as he was content. “Why don’t you do that, love?”

“Are you sure?” asked Sherlock. He watched her like a hawk, gaging every tiny reaction. 

“I think that John's right, we need a compromise. If you weren't happy I wouldn't be either. This way we get more time together without you getting under my feet all day.” 

Sherlock gazed at her for a few seconds and then he nodded. “All right, it's a deal.”

John stood up. “I'll stick a message on the website, Sherlock Holmes regrets -”

“I don't.”

John and Martha exchanged exasperated glances. “Sherlock Holmes regrets that he is not accepting any new clients until further notice,” said John. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, thanks,” replied Sherlock.

“Right, I'll leave you two to kiss and make up then,” said John. “How are the ribs?”

“Fine.”

“You’d say that anyway.  Don’t be an idiot, take plenty of painkillers and try to breathe as normally as possible. Tell me if it gets really bad and I’ll get you something on prescription, a low dose of morphine should make it a lot easier for you.”

“I don’t want to take morphine.”  The look in Sherlock’s eyes spoke volumes. 

“Something non-addictive then,” said John. “Just take ibuprofen for now and give me a shout of you have any problems.”

 “We will,” promised Martha. She ought to ask John to stay for supper, but they really needed some time on their own. “Why don't you have dinner with us tomorrow night?”

“Not tomorrow.” John grinned. “I've got a date with your policewoman.”

“Sophie?” Martha had a vague memory of John talking to the attractive WPC. “She seemed like a nice girl.”

“I think so.” John opened the kitchen door. He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I'll pop down in the morning and take a look at those ribs.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s smile was warm and sincere. 

Once John had gone back upstairs there was a brief awkward silence. Martha was sure that Sherlock’s shamefaced expression was mirrored on her own face. 

“We made a hash of that, didn’t we?” she said.

Sherlock laughed and opened his arms.  Martha went eagerly into his embrace and they stood in the middle of the sitting room with their arms around each other. She rubbed her hand over his back, skin and muscle under cotton. The lingering scent of her shampoo on his hair mingled with the masculine undertones of aftershave and Sherlock.  Their quarrel seemed idiotic now. 

Sherlock lowered his head and kissed her with tender passion.

She smiled lovingly and returned his kiss. “Let's go to bed.”

They made love gently and drifted off to sleep blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to break over their heads.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say this time except thank you for reading.

The mundane had turned into the surreal with the slam of a door. Sherlock strode into the room and hurled a crumpled newspaper onto the table. He hadn’t moved with such furious energy since he had received that beating from Roylett, but he seemed oblivious to pain. 

“Fucking bastards,” he snarled. 

“What on earth‘s the matter?” Martha let her magazine slip through her fingers. He had only gone to the corner shop for some milk. “What’s in the paper?”

“We are.” Sherlock snatched the newspaper up again. “Why the hell can’t people mind their owndamn business?”

“Let me see.” She already knew that this wasn’t going to be good and nervous butterflies fluttered in her stomach. 

“It’ll only upset you.” Sherlock warned her. Nevertheless he came towards her with the paper in his hand. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him and he sat beside her on the sofa. 

SHERLOCK ABANDONS CLIENTS TO MARRY OAP.

Her first, ridiculous response was resentment at being labelled an old age pensioner. Martha scanned the article. The bold black headline and a picture of Sherlock filled most of the tabloid’s front page so she had to flip to page two to assess the rest of the damage. 

“I suppose that it could be worse,” she said doubtfully. 

Sherlock snorted. “Not much. I don’t care what they say about me, but they’ve no right to make snide comments about you.”

“I care what they say about you.” Martha ran her eyes over the article again. … _a shock announcement …his eccentric landlady…_ that was just another way of saying that she was loopy. She kept reading… _a source close to the unlikely couple confirmed that…_   “What source? John would never speak to them.”

“They’d describe the girl who served you in Tesco’s as a close source.” 

“Well, I don’t think that John would ever describe you as ‘incredibly handsome’.” Amusement lifted Martha's spirits for a moment, but she had never expected this. There had been murmurings of discontent; complaints on social networking sites from people who seemed to think that they were entitled to Sherlock's time and attention. 'The Metro' had mentioned it in a small article on Tuesday and Martha had assumed that was the end of the publicity. How wrong she had been, it was just tittle-tattle and gossip, but with a spiteful, sneering edge to it. _Unattractive elderly woman_ that was how they described her. Why did he bother? Why did he want her? The insinuations were ugly, hinting at perversion and avarice. 

She reached for Sherlock’s hand. “How can they say such things about us?”

“It sells their pathetic scandal sheet to all the narrow-minded, ignoramuses who think that everything outside their drab, unthinking existence is peculiar and preposterous.”  Sherlock lifted her hand to his lips. “Are you all right?”

“I'm upset and I'm angry. I feel like phoning this rotten paper and giving them a piece of my mind, but I don't suppose that it'll do any good.”

“If anyone’s going to phone them it’ll be me,” said Sherlock grimly.

Martha was tempted to let him do just that, but they would only twist his words, bending them to a shape that would suit their purpose. “Leave it, love, it's just a storm in a teacup. They'll have some other poor devil to gossip about tomorrow.”

The next day's headline consisted of just three words. BATTERED AND BRUISED.

And they had to deal with it that evening.  John had picked up the early edition of the paper on his way home from a night out with Sophie. The moment she saw his face Martha knew that there was more trouble ahead. 

“I thought that you might be asleep, but I saw that the kitchen light was still on and I think that you need to see this,” said John. 

Martha caught a glimpse of the headline as John handed the paper to Sherlock. Her heart sank even before she saw Sherlock’s icy, grim expression.  A vague sickness assailed her and she turned towards John. “What are they saying now?”

It was Sherlock who answered her question. “You arrived at the registry office, ‘with an apparently broken arm and in some considerable distress’ according to unnamed employee, the implication being that you had been assaulted and coerced-“

“That’s nonsense.” Martha burst out indignantly.  “How dare they even suggest such a thing? Poking and prying, making accusations, who the hell do they think they are?”  A red mist swirled before her eyes all streaked with black. “Sherlock, I feel dizzy…”

The next thing Martha remembered was sitting on the sofa with Sherlock’s arm around her shoulders and a glass of water held to her lips.

“Just sip it slowly,” John told her.

“Stupid…” She took a mouthful of the water. “I'm so stupid to let them upset me like that.”

“It’s part of your condition unfortunately,” said John. “Your heart rate shoots up and vroom.”

“Vroom?” said Sherlock scornfully. “Is that a diagnosis?” 

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” said John mildly. “Are you okay?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” demanded Sherlock. “Since when have I cared what people think about me?  People don’t matter, John, this tabloid rag doesn’t matter. If they want to claim that I beat Martha up then let them. Not that they’ve got the balls to print an outright accusation.” 

John snorted. “The wankers are too scared that you’ll sue the pants off them.”

Martha was tempted to do just that, but a legal case would drag on for months and the last thing she wanted was to spend her remaining time surrounded by lawyers.  And all the compensation in the world wouldn’t take that wounded look out of Sherlock’s eyes. She clasped his hand. “Well, I can’t take it with me, can I? So let’s forget about suing, even if they do deserve it.” 

“They won’t let up,” John warned her. He ready to do battle on their behalf, although he had been horrified by their relationship just a few weeks before. “You might have to take them to court in the end.”

Martha looked at Sherlock, but he was silent and poker-faced, bleeding inside and pretending that it didn’t matter.  She shook her head. “It’ll just be more fuss, more publicity; I don’t see what else they can come up with anyway.”  

She spoke more in hope than belief. John was right the gutter press wouldn’t give up while they thought that they could squeeze a couple more headlines out of the story.  Yet maybe the worse of it was over. What could they come up that would top that cruel, emotive headline?  

JUNKIE SHERLOCK STOLE FROM DYING FIANCEE

“I’ll kill her!” was Martha’s immediate reaction. There was no doubt that Muriel was to blame, not for her the ‘close source’ or the ‘unnamed employee’.  Muriel couldn’t wait to get her picture in the newspapers. Martha could hear her acid tones in the words that leapt off the printed page.   _She wouldn’t say if he’d threatened her, but Martha was too frightened to call the police…crack and heroin…She told me that Sherlock had a violent temper…_ No, she had never said that and certainly not in the context of that fateful night. “This is all a pack of lies.”

“It’s true in essence.” Sherlock sounded weary and defeated. He was stretched out on their bed and the black misery was coming off him in waves. 

“It’s not true at all.”  She stroked his hair back off his forehead, trying to be strong for his sake. Her own sense of betrayal and injustice had left her feeling heartsick.  In just three days the press had managed to demolish his reputation.  “I’m so sorry that I ever told Muriel anything.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Sherlock. He held out his arms. “Come here.”

She was glad to lie down beside him, to rest her aching limbs and find solace in his embrace. Sherlock held her close, rubbing gentle circles on her back. Martha took his other hand. She rested her cheek on it and kissed each of his fingers in turn.  “You know that I love you,” she said quietly.

“That’s the only thing that makes all of this bearable.” He rolled over, a neat half-turn so that he was looking down at her. “I won’t have you hurt or frightened, not by anyone and certainly not by a rabid pack of scandal mongering hacks.”

“I’m all right.” She stroked his cheek. “It’s you I’m worried about, love.”

“Don’t be, I’m fine.”  Sherlock lowered his head and kissed her.  “As long as I’ve got you I’m fine.”

Martha wound her arms around his neck. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t hurt them both.  She opened her mouth under his, a gentle collision of tongue and teeth, softly, softly kissing.  Sherlock lifted his mouth from hers to trail kisses over her cheek bones and brow.  Martha cradled the back of his head.  He was infinitely precious to her.  How could they hurt him like that?  Telling in such wicked lies, making it seem as if the events of years ago had taken place only yesterday.  She kissed the fading bruises under his eye and touched the first, faint web of lines at the outer edge.  Time was relentless.  Neither of them would live forever.  

“We’re both here now,” she said.  Martha drew his head down to hers so that their lips met again.  Why lament the inevitable when they could make love instead?  Assuming of course that they were not too tired and bruised. She touched Sherlock’s side with feather-light fingers. “How is it today?”

“Sore, but not too sore.”  

His lovingly lustful tone and his amused smile made her happier than she had been for days.  She ran her hands over the planes of his chest until she reached the little white buttons on his shirt. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked.  “Whatever are you doing, Mrs Hudson?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”  There was a warmth in her that went beyond desire.  The press might have shattered them apart with their lies, half-truths and insinuations.  Yet this public vilification had only brought them closer together.

Sherlock complied, gentle kisses that seared into passionate comfort.  Martha slid the shirt off his shoulders. The patterning of dull yellow and black bruises on his chest made her wince.  No matter how many times she saw them the violence that had been inflicted upon him still saddened and angered her. 

“Don’t worry.  I’m all right, sweetheart.” Sherlock nuzzled her hairline.  He kissed the tip of her nose and his breath fluttered on her eyelashes.

Martha giggled and gave herself over whole-heartedly to their love-making. No more fears and no more doubts, only the warmth and the weight of him. Only the glorious feeling of him moving inside her, a pleasure that was almost more than she could bear.  She whimpered. “You’re too good…”  He had learnt quickly, but this wasn’t about technique. It was about the love that consumed her like a flame.  

*

Martha buttoned her coat. “Tea, soup and sympathy,” she said briskly. “What else do you expect from an old lady?” She bent over the sofa to kiss Sherlock. “And if you’re a good boy I’ll give you a blow job when I get back.”

He caught her hand in his. “Are you sure that you don’t want me to go?”

“No, love, a bit of fresh air will do me good. I feel as if I’ve been cooped up in the house for days.”  She ran the back of her finger down his cheek. “How are you feeling now?”

“Okay, still a bit sore.” He looked wonderfully, enchantingly, embarrassed. “I think that the painkillers are kicking in.”

She tried not to laugh at his expression, but it hadn’t been funny at the time. His sudden sharp cry of pain had brought an abrupt end to their love-making and scared her half to death. He had doubled-over clutching his side and she had feared broken ribs and punctured lungs. Thankfully he only seemed to have pulled his side, causing a violent fusion of pain. 

“Good. Well, I won’t be long, just half an hour or so.” 

All she planned to do was to nip to the baker’s a couple of streets away for some fresh bread. They had invited John to have dinner with them before the world had blown up in their faces and she saw no reason to cancel it. Life had to go on for as long as it could. She might buy a gateau and a bottle of wine as well.   Martha was glad that she could still do things for other people and it was especially nice to be able to spoil Sherlock.  Her mind flittered to the outfit she had bought for their wedding. She probably shouldn’t have spent so much money, but what the hell. They were only going to get married once. 

The shopping was straightforward enough. She even had a little natter with the woman behind the counter in the wine merchants. Feeling better than she had for days Martha stepped out into the street and there they were; a reporter and a photographer who shoved his camera into her face.

“I’ve nothing to say,” she snapped and tried to push past them, but they had her effectively pinned against the iron railings. When she did manage to take a step forward they only moved with her.

“It’s a chance for you to tell your side of the story,” insisted the reporter. “We’re giving you the opportunity to set the record straight if you think that we’ve got it wrong.“

“Get out of my way,” said Martha, but the man didn’t budge an inch.  He was very intimidating, all fake charm with a razor edge underneath it.  The reporter wanted a story and he wasn’t going to give up until he got it. “Leave me alone.”

He smiled, all teeth like a shark, only with more fillings. “There’s no need to be frightened or has Sherlock told you that you’re not allowed to talk to the press? Will he be angry with you if you do? Is it true that he’s a heroin addict?”

Martha shook with nerves and temper. “No, he’s not and-“

“And I think that’s quite enough gentlemen,” a cool cultured voice broke in. 

Martha had never thought that she would ever be so glad to see Mycroft.  She really could have kissed him. Her unlikely knight errant took her elbow while the pressmen were still gawping at him.  It only took them a second to recover, but by the time they did so he was already steering her towards the black car at the kerb.

“Who are you?” The reporter skidded to a stop in front of them. His beady eyes ranged over Mycroft’s three-piece suit. “Are you her lawyer? Sherlock’s lawyer? What’s your name?”

“Neither my name nor my photograph will appear in your newspaper.” Mycroft smiled and this shark had perfect teeth. “Good day, gentleman.”  He opened the car door. “After you, Mrs Hudson.” 

 She slid gratefully into the plush interior.  The reporter saw his scoop slipping away and tried to remonstrate with Mycroft, but he might as well have tried to part the Red Sea.  

Mycroft got into the rear of the car next to Martha. He tapped twice on the glass partition and the driver pulled neatly away from the kerb.  

“Thank you for rescuing me,” said Martha.  “They were just dreadful, that reporter was right in my face and his breath smelt terrible. Wouldn’t you think that he’d take more care with his personal hygiene?”  She realised that she was babbling. “I’m sorry. I always talk too much when I’m nervous.” 

“That’s quite all right and please do put your groceries down on the floor.”

Martha let go of the bags she had been clutching. “Were you coming to see Sherlock?”

“To see you actually. There is something that I wish to discuss with you before I broach the subject with Sherlock.”  Mycroft turned so that they sat facing one another. “Next time I suggest that you send him for the groceries. If you don’t mind my saying so he is rather better equipped to deal with any unpleasantness.”

“Sherlock was feeling a bit poorly.  He...over exerted himself."

"I see," said Mycroft drily and Martha was afraid that he saw only too well.  

The colour flared in her cheeks. “Well, anyway, I want to get out and about while I still can.”

“It is actually your medical prognosis that I wish to discuss with you. Obviously, your condition has implications for you and for Sherlock.”

Martha braced herself for ten very good reasons why a dying old woman shouldn't marry his brother.  She still wasn't completely sure how Mycroft felt about the impending wedding, but it seem reasonable to assume that she was far from being his ideal sister-in-law.

“I think that we've worked that one out for ourselves,” she said.

“Quite,” said Mycroft. “Firstly, your doctors were quite correct when they informed you that your cancer is incurable. So you must understand from the outset that I am not speaking of a miracle cure. We are only talking about the possibility of extending your anticipated lifespan by two or three months.”

“What...what possibility?”  Beyond Martha's bewilderment a tiny flame of hope flickered.  A nervous, fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach which she crushed ruthlessly.  She must not, dare not, hope for anything.

“I have been making enquiries on your behalf for some time. There is a new drug, purely experimental at this stage, but with some excellent results in clinical trials.  I must say our American cousins do or exceptionally well at this sort of thing.” 

“Do they? I didn't know...” This was overwhelming especially after three days of hell at the hands of the press.  ‘Think it through’ Sherlock always said and Martha tried to marshal her thoughts.  “They might not even agree to give me this drug and wouldn't it cost an absolute fortune if they did?”

“They will agree.  Let us just say that the professor in charge of the research now owes me a debt of gratitude. It would be so unfortunate if...  Well, I don't need to bore you with his somewhat unusual recreational activities.”

“You've blackmailed him?” Martha stared at Mycroft. “I honestly wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of you. Oh, heavens, this is all too much. I suppose that I'd have to go back to America for the treatment?”

“To Boston, not to Florida, and Sherlock would obviously accompany you. It isn't chemotherapy either, you wouldn't lose your hair." Mycroft pointed at the nape of her neck.  "You were twisting a strand a round your fingers."

Martha dropped her hands into her lap. "Does Sherlock know about this?"

“Not yet, it has to be your decision, not his.”

“I can't decide something like this without even talking to him first.”

“I think that we both know what Sherlock will want, but if you decide not to pursue the matter then it might be best if he were not made aware of this conversation. He might take it badly.” The shadows in Mycroft's eyes were not just reflections of the government buildings that flashed past. They were memories of all the dark times  

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” said Martha. It didn't matter that Mycroft was doing this for Sherlock rather than for her.  How could it when she would also have done anything for Sherlock?  How could it when Mycroft had just offered her a chance to enjoy another October autumn?  Then there was bonfire night, orange flames leaping into a black sky on the 5th November.  Dare she hope for one final Christmas and perhaps, just perhaps, to still be alive for Sherlock's birthday on twelfth night? 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I can instruct the driver to do another circuit of Westminster if you need more time to consider my proposal,” 

“No, Sherlock will wonder where I am.”  Martha sat up a little straighter. There had never really been any doubt what her decision would be. “Take me home and we can tell him the good news.”  She touched Mycroft's perfectly manicured hand. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say. Thank you.”

For an instant Mycroft had the same bashful look that she sometimes saw on Sherlock’s face.  “You’re welcome.”

*

Sherlock had lustrous tears in his eyes.  He wrapped his arms around her, unguarded and open in his happiness.   Martha felt his breath puff over her temple, half-sob and half-sigh. Then he looked over her shoulder and she felt the suppressed laughter ripple through him.

“What are you smirking at, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock without any ire at all.

Martha turned in the circle of Sherlock’s arms. Mycroft leant on the door frame with his arms folded and his legs crossed at the ankle. Oh yes, that was quite definitely a smirk. There really wasn’t any other word for it.

“Love makes fools of us all,” quoted Mycroft. He unfolded himself from the wall. “But since we are in agreement I’ll contact the institution in Boston and make the necessary arrangements.”  

“Thank you.” Martha knew that it sounded lame and inadequate. She waved her hand in the direction of the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute? At least have a cup of tea before you go.”

“I do believe that I will, even if only to annoy Sherlock, who would much rather have you to himself.” Mycroft seated himself on the end of the sofa and crossed his legs. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off the arm. “Although I see that you’re expecting company for dinner.”

“John’s coming down,” said Martha. She had laid the table for three earlier on in the day.

“He phoned to say that he’s running late. He’ll be here about a quarter-past.” said Sherlock. He threw himself down into an armchair, winced and then grinned at his brother. “So when did you decide to play fairy godmother?”

“I’ve been doing it all your life, my dear boy.  Have you never noticed?”

“Yes, I have.” Sherlock smiled and there was that same shy look Martha had seen so recently on Mycroft’s face. “Thanks, My.”

Mycroft looked across at Martha. “He used to call me that when he was very small and he couldn’t-“ A rap at the kitchen door interrupted him. “Ah, there’s the good doctor.”

It was indeed a bedraggled and windswept John.  He smoothed his wet hair back and shrugged off his black jacket.  “Who killed the paparazzi?  There were three of them out there when I left.”

“They had gone when I went out,” said Martha.  She had been so astounded and delighted by the lifeline Mycroft had thrown her that she had almost forgotten about the press being bastards. All their vicious words had suddenly lost their sting.  

Sherlock pointed at Mycroft. “He finally did,” he said in answer to John’s question. 

 John grinned. “Bringing your influence to bear?” 

“You could say that.” Mycroft turned to Sherlock.  “If you required my help all you had to do was ask. What are fairy godmother’s for after all?  Sometimes it is better to allow these things to run their natural course, but enough was quite definitely enough.  I really couldn’t allow _my_ family name to be dragged through any more mud.”

“What did you do?” asked John, “get some sort of super injunction?”

“Something of that nature, but one doesn’t like to trouble the courts when they are so very busy.” said Mycroft. “The relevant newspaper editors were simply reminded of their obligations and responsibilities then it was just a question of mopping up the stragglers.”

“Which you did very well,” said Martha. “A couple of them cornered me coming back from the shops and Mycroft rescued me,” she explained to John.

“Is that why he’s your fairy godmother?”  Now it was John who was smirking. 

Sherlock snorted derisively

“Among other reasons,” said Martha. She looked pointedly at Sherlock and then at Mycroft. 

“By all means feel free to tell John if you wish to do so,” said Mycroft.

John listened intently and asked a lot of medical questions. Then he sounded a note of caution. “That American professor shouldn’t be giving you a prognosis without even seeing you. Experimental drugs are notoriously unreliable, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much until you’ve had a consultation.”

Martha felt crushed.  She reached out for Sherlock. He took her hand automatically and drew her down onto the arm of the chair, but he was dissecting every flicker of emotion on John’s face.

It was Mycroft who answered.  “I agree that we should not be overly optimistic, but I took the liberty of sending Mrs Hudson’s medical records to the professor.  He is also had a lengthy telephone conversation with her consultant at Barts and he is quite confident of his prognosis.”

John nodded.  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed then.” 

“Do you think it will work?” Sherlock asked him bluntly. He put his arm around Martha’s waist.

“I’m not a specialist or a research scientist and I’ve never even heard of this drug, so who am I to say?” John pondered the question for a moment.  “It sounds as if the preparation‘s been pretty thorough which makes it more than a shot in the dark.  Unless something unexpected comes up at the consultation and provided she doesn’t have a bad reaction to the drug… yeah, it should be okay.”

Martha felt the tension ebb out of Sherlock and she also trusted John.   He wasn’t an expert, but he was their friend and as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.  John would not give them false hope just to spare their feelings, so he had to think that there was a chance for her. “Let’s do it then.” 

“All right.” Sherlock’s smile encompassed them all.

Determined not to dissolve into silly tears of pure relief Martha excused herself and retreated to the sanctuary of her kitchen.  About five minutes later Sherlock followed her out, leaving John and Mycroft to chat.

“Are you okay?” He brushed the back of his finger across her cheek.

“Yes, love.” Martha sounded distracted.  “I’d like to ask Mycroft to stay for dinner, but it’s my sausage casserole.  I can’t give that to your brother.  He’s probably used to Masterchef style cookery with all the twiddly bits.”  

Sherlock chuckled. “Stop worrying, Mycroft will eat anything.” 

“Thanks very much!”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Sherlock laughingly. He gave her a quick hug.

“Well, there’s plenty anyway. The recipe’s for six. I was going to freeze the leftovers.”

“You’ll be lucky if there are any leftovers given Mycroft’s insatiable appetite.”    

“A man should have a healthy appetite,” said Martha. “You don’t eat nearly enough.”

“Neither do you.”

“That’s different.” She had dropped a dress size recently. Her wedding suit was a size eight. There were days when she didn’t want to eat anything and all the recent upsets hadn’t helped either. All too often she had either been too exhausted or too stressed to face food. She patted Sherlock’s arm, “I’ll try, love.”

“Good.” He touched his lips to hers.

“Now, I had better see about getting everybody fed.  Can you lay another place for me?  It’s going to be a bit of a tight squeeze though, fitting four of us in around that table.”

“We could eat upstairs,” suggested Sherlock.

“Do you think that John would mind?” Somehow the upstairs flat had become John’s territory.

Sherlock pouted.  “It isn’t his flat.” There was a ripple of laughter from the other room.  “I don’t see why he should object. He seems to be getting along well enough with Mycroft." 

Martha took Sherlock’s hand and led him across to the other side of the kitchen,   ”Have you decided yet what you’re going to do about John and Mycroft?” she whispered.

Sherlock hesitated. He was so rarely indecisive, but this one was a dilemma. “Originally it was going to be John, but now I’m tempted to ask Mycroft. I’ve put him through so much crap over the years and I’ve never been really grateful for everything that he’s done for me.”

“Well, I’d like you to ask Mycroft to be your best man. Then I could put my dibs on John, someone’s got to…well, not give me away as such, it’s not going to that sort of walking down the aisle wedding, but you know what I mean.”

“Are you just saying that to make the choice easier for me?” asked Sherlock.

Martha shook her head. “No, love, I’m not going to have any family there next week and it would be nice to have a friend for moral support.”

Sherlock grinned. “You make it sound like an ordeal.”

“It’s not the wedding that’ll be the ordeal, it’s being married to you that’ll be the difficult bit,” she said laughingly. 

Now his grin was positively salacious.  “I didn’t hear you complaining the last time I had you backed into this corner.”

“Be quite, they’ll hear you,” hissed Martha. Sherlock took great delight in making her blush, but she really couldn’t go back in there with a face the colour of a beetroot. John and Mycroft would wonder what on earth they had been up to.  “Take Mycroft upstairs. Get him to help you set the table or something, so that I get a chance to talk to John without you both ear wigging.”

There were three things that she wanted to ask John and only one of them had anything to do with the wedding. 

*

They could hear the footsteps overhead, the creak of floorboards and the scrape of a chair.  Then a louder thud, Sherlock and Mycroft moving the dining table, just before they heard a succession of smaller, sharper thumps. 

“They should have moved all the junk off it first,” said John. “Mind you I think that’s what they’re arguing about.”

Martha listened to the raised voices coming from upstairs. It didn’t sound too serious, just a silly squabble. “Well, let’s hope that they don’t break my best china.”

They both laughed.

“All that ‘let’s go and lay the table’ stuff seemed a bit awkward,” said John.  “It’s okay if you need me to bugger off for a bit so that you can have a family conference or something.”

“You are family,” said Martha firmly. She sat down on her chintzy sofa and rested her hand on the arm. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt John’s feelings. Perhaps it would have been better if Sherlock explained personally, but it was too late for that now and there were still those things that she wanted to ask John. “That’s why I wanted to…well, dear, Sherlock’s decided that Mycroft should be his best man.”

“That’s fine.” Any disappointment was hidden beneath John’s easy acceptance. 

“Well, I’m rather glad because it means that I can ask you if you’ll…be on my side, you know, travel to the registry office with me and all that.”

“In loco parentis?” John was obviously amused by the idea, but he wasn’t laughing at her. 

“I know it sounds silly, but it would mean a lot to me.”  When her father died she had been living in Newcastle with Henry who wouldn’t let her come home for the funeral. He had said that they couldn’t afford the train fare, but she knew that he was afraid that she wouldn’t come back once she’d tasted freedom. Freedom from his temper and his fists. She had once sworn that she would never remarry and now she was about to do just that. 

“I’d be delighted,” said John, “if you’re sure that you want to go through with this.” There was a serious question behind his smile. 

“My first marriage was hardly a rip-roaring success and I’m going to be as nervous as a cat on hot tin bricks, but, yes, I’m sure that I want to go through with it.”  Martha took a deep breath and plunged in. “You don’t think too badly of Sherlock, do you? I mean after all that business with my fall and that wretched purse…”

“Hey, don’t get upset.” John leant forward and patted her hand. “I told those bloody reporters that he wasn’t even here when you fell, not that they bothered to print that.” He shrugged. “As to the rest, well, my sister once sold the dog for booze money. Yeah, you can smile, but it wasn’t funny at the time. My mum loved that hairy little hearthrug. We got him back in the end, but it was definitely not good. Desperate people do desperate things.”

Martha nodded. That was how Sherlock had been in those days; desperate and teetering on the edge of self-destruction. She didn’t want him to ever be like that again. 

There was another loud crash from upstairs. John glanced up at the ceiling. “We‘d better go and rescue your china.”

“There’s just more thing I wanted to ask you, I know that you’ve got your own life to lead, but when I’m gone please keep an eye on Sherlock for me. I worry about him…if he’s lonely and if he hasn’t got anyone to remind him to eat and sleep and…sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

“It’s okay. I’ll look after him for you,” promised John. 

“Let’s go then.” Martha stood up and brushed down her skirt. She didn’t have the words to express her gratitude. What did the vicious sniping of the press matter when the people who really counted had rallied around them?  “Sherlock’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“It cuts both ways. I was pretty lost after I left the army. If I hadn’t met Sherlock, if I hadn’t found a home here….well, let’s just say that I owe him, big time.”

Martha knew something of the lonely, traumatised man John had been before he came to Baker Street and she understood everything that he wasn’t saying.  “Sometimes it’s funny the way these things work out, almost as if it was all meant to be.” 

“Maybe,” said John.  “Sometimes stuff just happens.”

Perhaps John was right. She had no religious faith, no certain, comforting belief in an afterlife and yet sometimes life formed patterns which seemed too intricate to be purely random.  “Either way, we had better rescue the casserole and find out what they’ve done to my china.”

*

The table looked lovely.  Paper napkins had been folded into perfect fans and everything on the table was geometrically arranged. Glasses sparkled, china shone and all the rubbish off the table had been dumped behind the sofa. The precise layout was Mycroft’s doing and Martha had a moment’s panic about her humble casserole.

She needn’t have worried Mycroft ate everything that was placed before him with a gusto that brought an amused smile to Sherlock’s lips.  John also tucked in eagerly and there wasn’t much left in the bottom of the dish by the time they had finished, perhaps just enough to freeze to make a meal for Sherlock when she was too incapacitated to cook anymore.

Martha fully expected everyone to refuse her offer of cake, but Mycroft said that he could manage a small piece, which soon turned into two small pieces.

“You’ll put on weight again,” Sherlock warned him. He winked at Martha. “You would not believe how chubby he was as a child.”

“But I’m sure you will both believe how obnoxious Sherlock was,” said Mycroft. “He honestly hasn’t changed at all.”

“Not much anyway,” said John.  He dug his fork into the coffee and chocolate gateau. “This is good cake though.”

“I’ve ordered the cake for the wedding from that bakers,” said Martha.  “Just a simple square fruitcake with white icing and some lilac decoration.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me, let me guess, your initials entwined with love hearts and roses?” He was teasing Sherlock rather than her and he had the satisfaction of seeing his brother redden slightly. 

“I did think about it, but our initials are a wretched nuisance,” said Martha. She put her coffee cup down and drew an imaginary set of initials on the white tablecloth with her fingertip. “MS looks like Ms and if you put ‘&’ in the middle it’s like an advert for Marks & Spencer’s. I did try turning them around, but then it’s S&M and that’s even worse.” She looked across the table at Sherlock. “What was that thing we watched on Channel Four the other night? There was this man all done up in a rubber suit and then his girlfriend put a black hood over his head. And do you know he wasn’t even that ugly.”

“I don’t think that’s the point, Mrs Hudson.” John tried not to choke on his cake.

Martha frowned at him. “You really are going to have to stop calling me ‘Mrs Hudson’ and start using my Christian name,   otherwise you’ll have to start  calling me ‘Mrs Holmes’ in a few days and that would just be too silly.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would,” agreed John.

“Not nearly as silly as marrying my feckless brother,” said Mycroft cheerfully.

Sherlock’s sharp retort drew an equally barbed response from Mycroft and they were still bickering when the little group settled in front of the fire. Martha sat on the sofa next to Sherlock with a soft cushion behind her back.  Mycroft and John exchanged rueful smiles when they saw how attentive Sherlock was, but she knew that there was affection behind their amusement. Even the banter that flew back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft lacked any real bite. It was just the way they were, but John eventually got tired of the point scoring and broke out the Monopoly board.

“Well, I’m not having the iron or the thimble,” said Martha. Her favourite had always been the racing car, sleek and fast. It was a shame that she had never learnt how to drive.

Sherlock flipped the little silver iron across the coffee table to Mycroft. “Here, you have it, you’re more of an old woman than she’ll ever be.”

Mycroft caught the piece deftly in his left hand. “Somebody has to be the responsible one in the family and it was certainly never your forte.” 

“Okay, okay,” said John. “Truce.”

Martha doubted that it would last long, but Mycroft sat back in his armchair and Sherlock turned to her with the remaining Monopoly pieces cupped in his palm. “Which one do you want?”

She picked the racing car.  “And John should have the dog.”  Martha smiled at John as she handed him the piece.

Sherlock ended up with the battleship and battle duly commenced.

Park Lane and Mayfair.  Get out of jail free and a six to start.

Mycroft leant forward to pick up the dice.  He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. Martha suspected that was as casual as Mycroft ever got, but he looked happy and relaxed.  “We used to play this when we were children,” he said. “The game would go for hours, but poor Sherlock nearly always lost in the end.”

“I did not!” Sherlock scowled at all of them when Martha and John giggled at his indignation.

“Indeed you did.” Mycroft threw the dice. “Ah, eight. Nor did you fare any better at Chess, but you never learnt to concede defeat with good grace.  You simply would not believe how many times Sherlock overturned the chessboard in fit of temper.”

“I would,” said John cheerfully. “He’s always a sore loser.”

“It’s not surprising that you won most of the time, Mycroft,” Martha said loyally. “Sherlock was much younger than you.”

“I still am,” said Sherlock smugly.

Martha experienced a pang of guilt. Their respective ages written down on the marriage application had looked horrendous. It wasn’t an age gap. It was a yawning chasm.  She stole a sideways glance at him. Sherlock was so young, so alive and she was an old woman.  What right did she have to marry him at her age and in her state of health?

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked her in an undertone while John was buying a hotel from Mycroft.

“Nothing. I’m just getting a bit tired.”

He knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but he let it pass in the presence of the others. “That’s a shame,” he said in a silken whisper. Sherlock winked at her and somehow everything was all right again. A second later he reached for the dice, juggled them in his hand and threw a perfect double six.

They played on. Chance and community chest. King’s Cross and the waterworks.

Martha yawned. She really had started to flag. Her feet had started to ache as well so she kicked her shoes off and curled up on the sofa with her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.  A day which had started so badly had ended with warmth and good company.  Martha smiled to herself as she listened to them bickering over the game like three schoolboys. Honestly, men.

*

It was nearly two o’clock when they got into bed and Martha could barely keep her eyes open. She cuddled up to Sherlock.  “Oh dear, I can’t stop yawning. It was a lovely evening though, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.” He kissed the top of her head. “There was only one thing wrong with it.”

“What was that, love?”

“I never got that blow job you promised me.”

Martha giggled. “Ask me in the morning, “she said sleepily.  

*

Martha kissed his cock, lapping daintily at the delicate skin on the head. It was stretched, pink and glistening, and a bead of moisture had already appeared at the slit. Her heart lifted when Sherlock groaned and her laughter vibrated against his shaft. She felt his cock react to the tender stimulation. Martha pursed her lips and blew onto his heated flesh.

“For Christ’s sake…” Sherlock arched his spine.

“Well, I did promise you a blow job.”  She raised her head.  Her amused gaze met his frustrated one.  Their eyes locked and held for a long moment. Adoration, commitment and a silent, mutual ‘I love you’ passed between them. 

Sherlock reached out to clasp her shoulder. His long fingers sweep over her collarbone, into the hollow of her throat and down until they rested over her breast. He rolled her left nipple between his fingers and grinned broadly at her little gasp of reaction. 

“You won’t get around me like that,” she said laughingly.  

Martha kissed her way up the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein with the tip of her tongue. Sherlock sighed and shifted his hips restlessly. His breath caught in his throat. So she hadn’t lost her touch then. She had been doing this before he was born; all dark hair and mini skirt, kneeling on the lino in a cheap bedsit. The man’s face and name long since forgotten, just a one night stand and not a train of thought to pursue now. Would I have faithful if I had met you then, sweet Sherlock? Forever. For life. Until death do us part. 

She saw herself as a healthy young woman strolling along Brighton pier hand in hand with Sherlock. _We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep._

Martha blinked away her sorrow. She kissed the weeping slit and then swiped her tongue across it before she took him in her mouth. Sherlock held her head, rubbing his fingers through her hair, not compelling or demanding.  Henry had always called her all sorts of filthy names, _slut, whore, cock-sucking bitch_. He had made her feel degraded, never quite clean, never quite worthy. Tears seeped through her lashes to mingle with her saliva and the clear fluid oozing from the tip of Sherlock’s cock. She hoped that they would past unnoticed among all the glistening wetness. 

“You’re crying.” Sherlock tried to lift her head away from his groin.

“It’s nothing.” She kissed his palm and flicked her tongue over his thumb. “Just let me love you.” That was the thing that would chase all the bad memories away. 

“If you’re sure…” His lips lifted from the bed and an involuntary sigh escaped him. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m sure.” Martha was glad that he was thinking with something other than his brain. She really didn’t want to delve into the misery of her marriage.  Her tongue touched him again, like a cat washing a kitten and he moaned.  The little noises he made were both arousing and endearing.  She was more than willing to let him slide back into her mouth. Gentle and steady. She was going to savour this, to reveal in every whisper and buck of his hips. The pleasure was as much hers as it was his and it build upon itself as she caressed him with her mouth. 

“Oh fuck…that’s wonderful.” Sherlock kneaded her shoulder and clasped the nape of her neck. “God…I’m close.”

At first he’d always pulled out of her mouth at this point, but she’d finally convinced him that he didn’t have to withdraw. Now she redoubled her efforts, sucking hard, determined not to let him escape. Sherlock groaned and then he was there, spurting against her tongue. “Sweetheart…Oh, Martha…” He jerked, filling her mouth with his essence.  She swallowed it down with tears of joy burning in her eyes. Henry couldn’t hurt her now. It was all washed clean.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their wedding day, so mostly happy stuff with some angsty bits.

Martha stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She touched her hand to her cheek.  Her fingers couldn’t smooth away the lines and the expensive facial hadn’t taken take thirty years off her either.  Perhaps it didn’t matter, Sherlock was happy to marry her just as she was, but she ached for youth. For wedding anniversaries they would never see. No, not even the first.

She withdrew into herself, mentally checking for more physical aches and hardly daring to trust in their absence. Sunday had frightened her. It had been the worse day yet. Full of intense pain that her pills had refused to dull for hours. They had only kicked-in after John had reassured them that it would be safe for her to take just one more. Even then they had taken a further agonising hour to work. She had ended up sobbing like a terrified child in Sherlock’s arms.  He had been gentleness itself, refusing to listen when she told him that he was a fool to let himself in for all of this.

She had been exhausted afterwards and had slept through much of Monday. Then she had rallied a bit on Tuesday and by yesterday she had felt pretty much like her old self.  She had been well enough to have her hair cut and expertly coloured while the girls in the hairdresser’s cheerfully teased her about her upcoming nuptials.  Martha had enjoyed the banter. It was about as close as she was going to get to having a friend to giggle with. She thought briefly of Muriel, but they had never really been friends, not even at the best of times.

Martha looked herself over in the mirror one final time and she was pleasantly surprised by what she saw. She really didn’t look too bad for an old girl.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The Vernet ring was even older than she was and there was plenty of new, from her purple ankle-strap shoes to her dainty pearl earrings. The gold horseshoe brooch in her lapel had belonged to John’s mother and the blue was definitely taken care of.  Martha giggled. The young shop assistant had been quite flummoxed by the little old lady buying underwear that was blue in every sense.

Martha heard John moving around in the sitting room. Thank god he didn’t have x-ray eyes or she’d die of embarrassment on the spot. She just hoped that Sherlock didn’t think that it was too tarty. He had gone off to Mycroft’s posh flat at some unearthly hour leaving her to fret and fiddle with only poor, patient John for company.

Martha had already reapplied her lipstick, been to the loo twice and checked that the back door was locked, so she supposed that she had better get a move on.  She couldn’t be late for her own wedding.

*

The motion of the taxi made Martha feel queasy, but that was probably just nerves.  At twenty-five she had been too naively optimistic to be nervous, too convinced that she and Henry would live happily ever after.  They hadn’t.  Then she had found the courage to appeal for help and a dark haired young man had walked into her life. Not a lover, not then, but a true friend at a time when she had desperately needed to feel that someone was on her side.  

She didn’t doubt Sherlock. He would never abuse her trust in the way that Henry had. It was herself that she doubted, her age and her illness.  Yet she knew without any false modesty that Sherlock would be devastated if she called the wedding off at the last minute. Not that she had any intention of doing that. The thought of not marrying Sherlock was far worse than her pre-wedding jitters.

The taxi pulled up at the traffic lights and Martha caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window.  Was that really her, all dressed up for her wedding?    She turned to John.  “We’re nearly there.”  

He smiled. “How do you feel?” 

“A bit nervous.”  She was nearly strangling her bouquet of cream roses and purple freesias.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” said John. “There won’t be any trouble at the registry office. You don’t even have to worry about that employee who spoke to the gutter press.

“Mycroft said that she’d decided on a sudden change of career,” said Martha.  She understood something of the power that Mycroft wielded and she was thankful that was on her side. He would have made a formidable enemy. 

“So it should all be plain sailing,” John replied. “Mind you, I think Sherlock was ten times worse than you this morning.”

“I know. He was awake at four o’clock and I couldn’t get on with anything with him under my feet all the time. It was a relief to pack him off to Mycroft’s in the end.”  They shared a smile, exasperation and affection for the sometimes maddening and brilliant man who was so much a part of both their lives.  Martha felt deep in her bones that everything would be fine.  She could trust John to look after Sherlock when she had gone.

The registry office came into view, Victorian Portland stone with a modern glass and chrome entrance.  Martha turned to John.  “Well, how do I look?” 

“Happy.” John grinned. “You look happy.”

She was happy, ecstatic and excited, but the butterflies came fluttering back once they got inside.  Sherlock was waiting in the reception area with Mycroft at his elbow.  Mycroft was as prim and smart as ever in his usual three-piece suit.  A white carnation in his buttonhole was his only concession to the wedding day, but Sherlock looked so subtly different.  

He crossed the room in two strides and clasped her hand. “You look amazing.”

She laughed.  “Well, that’s one way of describing it.”  Martha looked him over.  His charcoal grey suit went well with the silk-shine of his shirt. A carnation had been pinned very precisely to his lapel and he wore a soft grey tie pencil-striped with lilac. “I suppose I don’t need to ask whose idea this was.”

“I thought that it was appropriate,” said Mycroft.  

Sherlock winked at Martha.  “He thinks that he talked me round, but I only gave in because I thought that you’d like it.”

“It’s very smart, love.”   She was proud of him, immensely so.  What girl wouldn’t be?  And she was a girl, for today at least, as keyed up and jittery as any other bride.  

“There, you have your intended’s seal of approval,” said Mycroft smugly. 

Martha turned her head towards Mycroft. “I think that it’s – “

A door opened next to the reception desk. A tall West Indian man came towards them. “Hi, I’m Gerard Roopnarine. I’ll be conducting your marriage ceremony today.”

The registrar shook hands with Sherlock and then with Martha. She refrained from asking what had happened to the lady they had seen when they booked the wedding. The answer seemed obvious, besides this garrulous gentleman seemed much more pleasant.   

“What happens now?” she asked him. 

“Nothing to worry about,” Gerard Roopnarine reassured her. “I just need to ask you both to step into the marriage room so that we can go over a few final formalities. Then your guests can join us and we can get underway.”

Oh, my god, they really were going to do this and Martha thought that she had been nervous before. She griped Sherlock’s hand. However anxious she felt, however absurd this might be, she wanted to marry him and she was damn well going to do it. “That’s fine,” she said firmly. Martha looked at John and Mycroft. “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Break a leg,” said John cheerfully. He chuckled when Sherlock glared at him.

*

John’s smile disappeared when the door to the marriage room closed. “Sherlock’s unusually quiet.”

“Pre-wedding nerves,” said Mycroft. “He certainly isn’t having second thoughts if that’s what concerns you.”

“What about you?” John gave Mycroft a long, hard stare. “Are you as bowled over by all this as you appear to be?”

“Stable. Horse. Bolted.”  Mycroft sat down and gestured for John to take the chair opposite. “In many ways this little piece of theatre is an irrelevance.”

“Not to them it isn’t.”

“No, obviously not.” Mycroft looked pensive. “For many years it seemed likely that Sherlock would never capitulate to the lure of physical and emotional intimacy. Then he quite typically chooses the most unsuitable partner possible. All happiness is fleeting, but his is going to be more transitory than most.”

“Martha asked me to keep an eye on Sherlock afterwards,” said John quietly. 

“Doubtless she will require a similar undertaking from me.” Mycroft shrugged. “We can only do our best, John.”

*

The interview was straightforward enough. They just had to confirm their names and other basic facts. Then Sherlock had to give details of the witnesses and go to the cashier’s office with Gerald Roopnarine to pay the marriage fee.

“You can either wait in reception with your guests or stay here until the ceremony starts,” Roopnarine told Martha.

“I’ll wait here.”  She wanted a quiet moment to herself, but the big room seemed very empty once they left her alone.

The marriage room was light and airy, but it was a bit too formal for her liking.  Martha was drawn to the wall of windows that overlooked the bustling street below. She could see treetops in the distance. There was a shimmer of summer on the dappled leaves and the sun glowed on the magnolia walls. They almost matched her cream suit. 

Martha heard the door open. It was Sherlock.

“The registrar will be back in five minutes,” he said. “He wants to phone his partner and patch-up the quarrel they had before breakfast this morning.”

“Did he tell you that?” asked Martha. It seemed a bit unprofessional. 

“No.” Sherlock grinned when she smiled. He slipped his arm around her waist. “Are you okay?” 

“Just a little bit nervous. Things like this happen to other people, not to me, not at my time of life. Romance is for the young and the beautiful, not for daft old ladies.”

“You’re not daft and I never saw the point of romance before we got together.” Sherlock admitted. “It all seemed such a lot of nonsense, just sentiment and biological urges all wrapped up in a red ribbon and called love.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “It’s not just that though, is it? It’s…I love you, Martha.”

“That’s good because we’re getting married in a few minutes.” Martha blinked, now was not a good time to find out how waterproof her mascara really was. She interlaced her fingers with his. “I love you.”   

“I had better make an honest woman of you then,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

“So you had, there’s just one thing first, let’s get rid of this silly tie.” Martha reached for the knot on the silk tie. “It’s very smart, but it just isn’t you, love.” She slid it off his neck and opened the top two buttons on his purple shirt. “There, now you look like my Sherlock.”

“Is that a good thing?” asked Sherlock. Then he grinned. “Yeah, I’m nervous too.”

“I’d probably feel worse if you weren’t. It’s nice to know that it’s not just me who’s got the heebie-jeebies,” said Martha. 

She supposed that it was like stage-fright. They would be fine once the wedding started and then it would all be over before she knew it. The had opted for the simplest, no frills, ceremony and  the registrar had told them that it would take less than fifteen minutes. Then she would be Mrs Holmes. It all seemed too easy somehow.

Gerard Roopnarine came back with John and Mycroft in tow. They all took their seats while he ran through the preliminaries. Then he asked them all to stand up and then the marriage ceremony began. 

“I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I Martha may not be joined in matrimony…” She held Sherlock’s hand tightly, warm skin over strong bone. He would be her husband, her world. Until death us do part.

He didn’t falter, nor did he even glance at the registrar. His gaze was fixed on her. “I call upon these persons here present to witness that I Sherlock do take thee Martha to be my lawful wedded wife.”

There was a gold ring that was subdued by the shimmer of the Vernet ring next to it on her finger and they all had to sign the register. Five minutes later they stood on the pavement outside the registry office, smiling like fools while John took photos with his camera phone.

Nothing could spoil her happiness. Not even the slightly rough around the edges wedding party who fell out of a taxi complete with cans of lager. My Big Fat Gipsy wedding really wasn’t in it. Martha felt quite sorry for the registrar. A few of the young men sniggered and nudged each other.

“Bloody ‘ell, he’s not married her, has he?” They laughed, pushing at one another like a rabble of drunken schoolboys.

“I ‘ope you’ve got plenty of Viagra, mate!” One of them yelled at Sherlock.

“He doesn’t need it,” retorted Martha. “So he won’t have to borrow any of yours.”

The mocking grin dropped from the lout’s face. “Wot do yer mean?”  His friends jeered and he rounded on them. “Shut the fuck up, will yer? She ain’t gonna talk to me like that.” He jabbed his finger at Martha. “You keep your gob shut or I’ll shut it for yer.”

“No, you won’t.” Sherlock stepped in front of her.

The lout wasn’t too drunk to recognise trouble when he saw it. He looked at Sherlock’s implacable face. Then at John and Mycroft who had silently closed ranks. “Oh, fuck it, you lot are lucky that I’ve got a bleedin’ wedding to go to.” He barged into the registry office, turned back to give them a two-finger salute and got wracked on the head by the automatic door.

“Let’s hope that knocked some sense into him,” said John.

“Oh, it would take much more than that.” Mycroft frowned. “It’s at times like this I can’t help thinking that it’s a great pity eugenics ever went out of fashion.”

“That had better be a joke,” said John.

Sherlock turned to Martha. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” It would take more than a little altercation like that to burst the bubble of happiness inside her. “It was lovely how you were all ready to defend me and I’m not going to let anyone or anything spoil today.”

“Ah, here’s our transport,” said Mycroft. A sleek black Bentley had rounded the corner.

John chuckled when he that it didn’t have any number plates. “Did you borrow this off the queen?”

“No, but I do allow her to use it on occasion,” said Mycroft with a perfectly straight face.

John looked at Sherlock. “Is he for real?” 

Sherlock laughed. “Unfortunately, yes.”  

As soon as they were all settled behind the blacked out windows the unseen driver pulled out into the afternoon traffic. Martha remembered her previous journey in one of these cars when Mycroft had offered her a reprieve, albeit a temporary one. She and Sherlock were scheduled to fly to Boston straight after their short honeymoon. Martha caught Mycroft’s eye and smiled at him.

“Welcome to the family,” he said.

“And you are welcome to it,” added Sherlock sardonically. 

“Do you two never stop bickering?” Martha demanded laughingly. 

“You’ll be lucky,” said John with a chuckle. He stretched and crossed his ankles. “Still look on the bright side, it beats travelling on the tube.”

“Or the bus,” said Martha.  She settled back on the wide leather seat with her arm linked through Sherlock’s. It was lovely to be so pampered and spoilt.  Her gaze lingered on his profile. It was the miracle of being married to him that really mattered. Everything else was just the icing on the cake, but it was a very splendid cake.

To her surprise the car glided to a halt outside a florist’s in Covent Garden.  “Why have we stopped here?” she asked.

“Because my brother can’t resist showing off.” Sherlock’s scorn was underscored by affection.  There was genuine warmth in his eyes when he looked at Mycroft.  

John craned his neck so that he could see down the street. He pointed at the imposing three-storey building on the corner. “Let me guess, we’re going to The Ivy, right?”

“Not quite,” said Mycroft. “I thought that we might want to avoid the riff-raff.”

“In one of the most expensive, fashionable restaurants in London?”  John chuckled. “Okay, what does ‘not quite’ mean?”

 It meant that they entered the building through the florist’s shop.  Mycroft led through a door at the rear of the shop and banks of carnations and lilies suddenly gave way to an elegant chrome and white hallway.  Martha might have been intimidated by the reflective gleam of metal and glass, to say nothing of the massive chandelier, but she knew what this all reminded her of.

“Eat your heart out Napoleon Solo,” said John sotto voce.

Martha giggled. “I was thinking about the ‘Man from UNCLE’. They always got into their secret headquarters through a door in the tailor’s shop, didn’t they?”

“Indeed they did,” said Mycroft. “The lift is over here.”

Martha pulled her face at Sherlock. “Oops, I didn’t mean him to hear that.”

“Doesn’t worry, Mycroft’s ego needs a regular denting.” Sherlock gave her a quick kiss.  “There’s no reason for you to tread on eggshells.”

The lift took them up to an elegant reception desk.  Mycroft stated his name and they were instantly whisked away to a table in a spacious book-lined room.  The staff danced attendance on them and Martha hoped that Sherlock was right about those eggshells. Still it was her day, so why shouldn’t she enjoy it?  She gave up trying to find something on the menu that wouldn’t weigh her down in favour of looking around the dining room.

The subtle grandeur of the private club appealed to her. Pristine white tablecloths and luxurious leather chairs. A swirl of green on the carpet, not that green was her favourite colour. There was a huge stained glass window opposite their table; leaded diamond shimmers of gold, scarlet and blue cast an ever-changing rainbow over them.   

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of champagne. It bubbled and sparkled in crystal flutes, but it wasn’t really her thing and Sherlock knew it.  He glanced at the drinks menu and whispered something to the sommelier. 

“Surprise,” Sherlock told Martha in answer to her enquiring look.

“I’m not sure how many more surprises I can take,” she said happily.

She could certainly take this one. It was an elderflower martini and if she hadn’t been in love with Sherlock it would have won her heart.  The food was lovely enough to tempt her merger appetite, though she started to struggle a quarter of the way through her main course. She set her cutlery aside and sipped at her martini.    

The dining room had filled up while they ate and many of the diners seemed to be acquainted with Mycroft. One immaculate dark-skinned young man came across to shake his hand.  He was an attaché from the Saudi embassy and he certainly was a diplomat. His black eyes flickered, but he never missed a beat when Mycroft introduced Sherlock and her as his brother and sister-in-law. 

The attaché clicked his heels together and bowed over her hand. “Enchanted.”

The whole thing was enchanting. Martha had never had a day quite like this one. She nudged Sherlock when she recognised a famous film star. Although she disapproved of the racket he made, demanding this, that and the other and being terribly rude to the waiter. 

 “Someone needs to take him down a peg or two,” she said firmly.

“I shall mention it to the management committee,” said Mycroft. “Membership seems to be being granted to far too many people who think that they are important when they are nothing of the kind.”

“Present company _not_ excepted?” asked Sherlock innocently.

“I have a position of responsibility, look up the dictionary definition if you are unfamiliar with the word.”  Mycroft’s distain would have withered a lesser mortal, but Sherlock just grinned.

“What exactly do you do?” asked Martha. She knew that Mycroft had a lot of power and influence, but it all seemed very cloak and dagger to her. 

“I am merely a civil servant,” said Mycroft. 

Sherlock leant across to whisper in Martha’s ear. “He runs the country.”  

Mycroft who had clearly overheard and it was the bland look on his face that convinced Martha that Sherlock wasn’t joking.  She ought to have been impressed, perhaps even a little overawed, but temptation got the better of her. Martha sighed dramatically.  “Well, I wish do you wouldn’t make such a mess of things, Mycroft. Can’t you try a just little harder? I mean just look at the state the economy’s in. I had my winter fuel payment cut last year and the buses never turn up on time. Not that you would know about that, but honestly…”  She tried to carry on with her angry old lady act, but Sherlock and John were cracking up and she couldn’t help laughing.

It took Mycroft a second to realise that he’d been had. He gave them all a frosty stare. “I’m glad that you all find it so amusing.”

“No, you’re not,” said Sherlock and that set them all off again. 

Martha patted Mycroft’s hand. “I’m sorry, dear.”  She still hadn’t quite got the measure of Mycroft, but she didn’t want to upset him after he’d been so good to them. “I think that elderflower martini must be going to my head.”

“Your apology might be a little more believable if you could at least try to keep a straight face.” To her surprise Mycroft raised her hand to his lips and kissed it courteously. “Congratulations, Mrs Holmes.”

“Ever the politician, Mycroft?” Sherlock was both scornful and amused.  He lifted his wine glass in mock salute.

“Kissing dogs and patting babies?” teased John.

“Oh, I leave that sort of nonsense to our elected representatives.” Mycroft managed to make ‘elected’ sound like a dirty word. “Would you care for another martini, Martha?”

She wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with the medication she was on, but John had said that a drink or two wouldn’t hurt. Martha looked across the table at him. “Can I, pretty please?” 

“Just one more, that’s strictly your limit.” 

Martha enjoyed the drink all the more because she knew that it was her last one. It was cold, pure and faintly scented with a solid kick of alcohol behind it. Even without John’s stipulation she wouldn’t have risked a third martini.  She didn’t want to be drunk on her wedding night.  Still she preferred it to all the rich food that had started to make her feel a bit queasy again.  What she really wanted was a cigarette, but of course you weren’t allowed to smoke in here. It probably wasn’t allowed in the hotel either, but perhaps Sherlock could pull his trick with the smoke alarms again, just as he had done in Brighton.

The lime and coconut sorbet was also cold and delicious. She liked it far more than the main course which she had only picked at.  Then they were onto coffee and liquors, which Martha refused under John’s watchful eye, though she stole a few sips of Sherlock’s Louis XIII cognac. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that,” said John. He sounded slightly tipsy.  

“You didn’t,” said Sherlock. He handed Martha the last of the vibrant amber cognac. “It won’t do her any harm.”

If they had been alone Martha would have joked about him trying to get her drunk so that he could have his way with her. As it was she contented herself with a loving smile over the rim of the glass. Sherlock smiled back at her and took her hand under the table. 

John reached into his jacket pocket. “It doesn’t compare to a meal in this place or to a couple of nights at the Dorchester, but these are for you.”  He handed Martha a white envelope. “Congratulations.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” declared Martha. 

“No, you shouldn’t,” Sherlock said under his breath. He squeezed her hand just to let her know that he didn’t really mean it.

“Do you know what’s in here?” Martha waved the envelope under Sherlock’s nose.

“Yes.” Sherlock gave her a lopsided grin. “Go on open it.”

The three of them watched her rip the envelope open. Tickets fell into her hand. They were for the next evening’s performance of ‘Phantom of the Opera’. “Oh, that’s marvellous, John. I’ve wanted to see that for ages.”

“Yeah, I know,” replied John. “Sherlock told me.”

“Perhaps rather foolishly,” added Mycroft. “You must tell me all about it, brother dear, but on second thoughts please don’t bother, I’d rather not know.”

“Well, I think that it’s sweet of both of you,” said Martha. She pressed Sherlock’s hand and smiled at John. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” John gestured at the tickets with his glass. “I think it’s more of a woman’s thing. Sophie kept going on about how good it’s supposed to be.”

“That was a hint, John,” said Martha. “You’ll have to take her to see it.”  She picked her flowers up off the table. “Give her these as well and tell her that I’m sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic. Still you’re much nicer than that rat who dumped her, so it’s all worked out for the best in the end.”

 “It’s early days yet,” muttered John. He looked somewhat sheepishly at the spray of flowers. 

“And late afternoon,” said Mycroft briskly. “I believe that it’s time we were on our way.  Unfortunately, I have an appointment at Downing Street in twenty minutes.  I’ll arrange for a car to take our newlyweds to the Dorchester and I’ll give you a lift back to Baker Street in my car, John.  It’ll save you the embarrassment of travelling on the underground carrying a bridal bouquet.”

*

They stood in the foyer at the back of the florists.  The air was rich with the mingled scents of the flowers and the chandelier threw patches of glittering sunlight onto the walls.  It was lovely, but Martha was ready to leave.  She leant into Sherlock side, grateful for the supporting arm around her waist and for the solid shoulder under her cheek.  The meal had been far richer than she was accustomed to and a lassitude had crept over her.  Martha tried to suppress her yawns.

Mycroft’s phone rang.  The cars were outside and now at the parting of the ways everyone looked a bit self-conscious.  No one quite knew how to say goodbye.

“We had better go,” said Mycroft.  He looked at them and a half-frown marred his brow.  It was replaced an instant later by a sorrow tinged smile. “I hope that you both had a pleasant afternoon.”

 Martha went to him with her hands outstretched.  “It was wonderful.  I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’re most welcome.” Mycroft looked as bashful as a teenage boy on his first date.  He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek.  “Let me know if Sherlock gives you too much trouble.”

"I’ll do that.”  She let go of Mycroft’s hands and turned to John. “And thank you.  Take care of yourself while we’re away and don’t forget to put my bins out on Monday night.”

“Don’t worry, the house will be fine.” John hugged her and planted another kiss on her cheek.  “Just look at those two.”

Sherlock and Mycroft had both hesitated on the brink of a hug.  Mycroft held his hand out instead and Sherlock shook it.  “Thanks, My.”  Their embrace was brief and awkward, but heartfelt.  Sherlock quickly turned towards John.  “I’m glad…thanks for the support.”

“Okay, but I’m not cuddling you.”  John grinned and they gave one another a hug.

Martha sniffed and wiped her eyes discreetly.  She really was a sentimental old thing.  Yet she couldn’t help smiling through her trickling tears.  She was so grateful for the new family she had been blessed with at the end of her life.

*

“It’s a good job that I’m not afraid of heights,” said Martha. The receptionist had referred to this as a roof terrace and when she looked down red buses and silver cars crawled along Park Lane in prefect miniature. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. The wind caught it again and blew Sherlock’s dark curls forward.  One flicked against her cheek and Martha turned her head so that they could kiss again. 

He smiled at her when their lips parted. This was such a divine madness. Sherlock stood behind her with his arms wrapped securely around her waist. His lips brushed her earlobe. “What do you think of the view, sweetheart?”

London was laid out before her in a sweeping vista. One that was dominated by the trees that filled Hyde Park and the summer sky that swept down to kiss the far horizon.  A suave of concrete and glass rose between the park and the horizon. Almost on the edge of Martha’s vision Battersea Power Station stood framed by drifting white clouds. 

“I love this city,” she said softly.  It would continue without her, just as it had always done, moving on into a future that she would never see. Even this grand hotel would not stand forever. One day it too would be dust and history.

Sherlock kissed the nape of her neck and rocked her gently in his embrace. 

She had not meant to make him sad, not today of all days when they were meant to be celebrating. Why should she let darkness encroach onto their special day?  _Do not go gentle into that good-night._   Like fuck she would. Martha turned his embrace and kissed him fiercely.

Sherlock cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. His tongue delved past her lips and the faint taste of cognac flavoured their passionate kisses. He wrapped both arms around her and held her close to his heart. Her cheek rested on his collar bone and she snuggled into him. They were mismatched in so many ways and yet they fitted together perfectly.  Martha drifted, warm and safe, held tight against the bulkhead of his strength.  

Sherlock kissed her hair. “You’re tired.”

“I’m alright,” she said immediately. “I’m just not used to all this excitement.”

“Liar.”  He tilted her chin up and ran his finger down her cheek. “Why don’t you have a little rest?”

Martha shook her head stubbornly. “No, not today.”

Sherlock’s smile was positively wicked. “Well, I know how to make you sleep.” He swung her up off her feet.  

Martha squealed.  “Sherlock! Put me down for heaven’s sake. What about your ribs? You won’t be any use to me if….”

He kissed her into compliance. Sherlock kicked the bedroom door open and Martha winced to see the dark smudge his shoe left on the immaculate paintwork.  He knelt on the edge of the four-poster bed and lowered her carefully onto the duvet. 

Martha wrapped her arms around his neck. He needed no other urging to lower his head and kiss her again. Then he slipped out of her embrace and sat up with a gleam of fire in his eyes.  Sherlock rubbed his hand up her leg and under her skirt. “I know you’re wearing stockings,” he said seconds before his fingers touched the lacy top of one. 

Martha pouted. “They were meant to be a surprise, but I suppose that there’s no getting anything past you.” She grasped his wandering hand. “How did you know?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I saw the receipt in the kitchen bin.” He wriggled his hand out from under hers. “The question is what else are you hiding?”

“Probably not nearly as much as I should be.”

“Now there’s an intriguing answer.”  He slid his hand across the top of her thigh. “Well, you’ve remembered to put your knickers on.”

“Sherlock!” His fingers pressed between her legs and she kicked her feet out. There was a distinct rip of silk. “Oh hell, I’ve caught my heel in the duvet.”

“Don’t worry about it, just kick your shoes off.” 

“I can’t kick off ankle straps.” She gave him a nudge. “Let me sit up and I’ll unfasten them.”

“I’ll do it for you.”  Sherlock put her left foot on his lap. His nimble fingers made short work of the dainty buckle. He trailed his fingers over her foot. “I wonder if you’re ticklish?” 

He knew jolly well that she was. Martha pulled her foot away quickly and rested her other shoe on his thigh. “Just get on with it, will you?”  She stroked the curls at the nape of his neck. “The girls in the hairdressers were teasing me, saying that I should have a pedicure as well as a manicure, just in case you had a foot fetish.”

“I’ve got a Martha fetish.”

Sherlock was joking, but a chill swept over her. “Some people would say that’s exactly what you do have, a fetish, a thing for elderly women.”

“And they would be wrong. It’s never been part of my psyche, but then neither was falling in love, not until we happened. This is about you and only you.” His kiss was very tender and his expression almost made her weep. “I’ll never replace you, Martha.”

“Yes you will. I want you to.” And if the hearts of the dead could break hers surely would.

Sherlock contemplated her silently for a moment.  Then he stretched out beside her and slipped his hand back under her skirt. “Well, they’re not crotchless knickers.”  He laughed. “Now you’re blushing.”

“Is it any wonder? You’re a wicked man, Sherlock Holmes.” She smiled. “If you must know I did think about it, but I decided that it was just too cheap and tarty.”

“Pity.” He ran his fingers over the thin silk. “Still it’s nothing that a pair of scissors wouldn’t solve.”

 “Don’t you dare!”  She tried to push him away and they grappled in a laughter filled mock battle until she was willingly defeated by his superior strength.  

Sherlock pinned her slender wrists to the bed, spanning them both easily with one hand.  He hooked the fingers of his other hand over the top of her knickers. “You’ll just have to take them off then, won’t you?”

“I’ve still got my jacket on,” she protested. “Let me sit up, love.”

Sherlock released her instantly.  He knelt behind her on the bed and slipped her suit jacket off her shoulders.  It sent a shiver through her when his tongue flicked over the back of her neck.  Sherlock turned his attention to the row of pearl buttons on her Victorian style blouse.  When the high-neck fell open he laid a line of kisses across her skin.  He gathered the hem of her blouse in his hands. “Lift your arms, sweetheart.”

Martha tensed.  She had been daft, fancy buying a bra like that at her age.  “I…I got a bit carried away when I was buying my underwear.”

Sherlock turned his head so that his face was almost touching hers and his quizzical expression made her giggle nervously.  “How carried away? Come on, let me see.” 

In for a penny in for a pound.  Martha raised her arms so that he could tug the blouse over her head.  She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself to cover the front of that silly bra. “I know it’s a bit obscene but-“

“Hush.”  He lifted her hands to his lips. “I like it. More than like it.”  He touched the blue silk and traced the curve of the cup that ended in a scallop of lace just below her nipple. “God, it’s gorgeous.”

“They call them half-cup bras and I thought it would be fun but…Oh, that tickles.”  She clasped the back of his head as his breath played softly over her breast again. “Stop that…”

“All right.”  He licked her instead, dampening the lace before he took her nipple in his mouth. 

Martha sighed and pulled him closer. He had wrapped one arm securely around her narrow waist and the other toyed lazily with her other breast.  Sherlock raised his head. He kissed her lips and then rested his forehead on hers. She could hear the gallop of his breathing. When he drew back a little to look into her face his eyes were black and blown. 

“God…” He laughed. “I love it.”  Sherlock squeezed her breast gently. “I was going to soothe you to sleep with my fingers. I thought that I could hang on, but this has flipped some kind of switch inside me. God, I want to fuck you.”

Martha was touched and thrilled by the passion in his voice. “Go on then, you’re entitled. I’m your wife after all.”

*

Sherlock was flicking through a multitude of TV channels when she returned from the bathroom.  He was stretched out in bed with one arm folded behind his head and a frown on his handsome face.  

“Getting bored?” asked Martha.  She had brushed her hair and reapplied her make-up after she had been to the loo.  

Sherlock gestured at the wall screen with the remote control. “This is enough to bore anyone.”  He tossed the control onto the bedside table. “Come back to bed, sweetheart.”

“Just a minute.” Martha kicked off her fancy slippers, but she left her short silky robe on. Maybe it was her or perhaps there was a slight nip in the air. “Does that fireplace in the other room actually work or is it just for show?”

“According to the brochure it’s a fully functional fireplace. I’ll get them to light a fire for us tomorrow.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that cold.”  

Sherlock smirked. “It might be when you haven’t got any clothes on.”  He threw back the covers and patted the bed. “In the meantime I’ll just have to do my best to keep you warm.”

“And entertained if there’s nothing on the telly?” Martha slid into bed and he put his arm around her.  She snuggled up to him. “That bathroom’s quite something, isn’t it? What with that huge sunken bath and all the black marble-“

“Moonstone,” Sherlock murmured into her hairline. “It’s moonstone, not marble.”

Martha raised her head. “The stuff they make jewellery out of?”

Sherlock nodded and took the opportunity to kiss her.

“I didn’t know that you could get pieces that big.” Martha settled back into his arms.  She rested her head on his shoulder with the smooth cotton of his pyjama top under her cheek.  “You could fit the entire ground floor of the terraced house I grew up into that bathroom and still have space to spare.”  Martha sighed. “I’ve come a long way from Alton Street.”

He looped a strand of her hair around his index finger. “Would you like to see it again?”

“Alton Street? It’s long gone, love. It went in the slum clearances in the 1960’s. There’s a supermarket there now.”  Martha took Sherlock’s hand. “I wouldn’t go back even if I could. It’s all in the past and I didn’t have the happiest of childhoods.”

“Neither did I,” admitted Sherlock. “I was always trying to keep up with Mycroft and I was a bloody nightmare at school.  I’m useless in group situations and I had no patience for all the stupid rules and regulations. It was after I’d been expelled for the fourth time that my parents gave up and had me educated at home.”

“At least that was better for you.” Martha squeezed his fingers. “And here we are.  It’s a funny old life, isn’t it?  Whoever would have imagined that we’d end up like this?  God, I was so nervous that first time we slept together in Brighton.”

 “Not nearly as nervous as I was, I didn’t have a bloody clue what I was doing.” Sherlock’s rueful smile was tinged with embarrassment. “I thought that I could fake it and when I realised that I couldn’t…” He kissed her hand. “You never once made me feel bad about it.”

“Why would I ever want to do that?” Martha cradled his hand against her cheek. “I felt flattered, special, it was an honour and a privilege.”

“The privilege was all mine.” A gallant response, but a sincere one. Sherlock pressed his lips to her palm. “My sweet Martha.”

She sniffed. “Well, you play your cards right and you might just get privileged again.”

“Why do you think that I married you?” he teased. “Let’s lie down.”

Martha shrugged off her robe, revealing her short, strappy nightie. 

“Very nice.” Sherlock outlined the curve of lace gathered below her breast. 

 “I’m glad you approve.” She sank down into the luxury of the silk and mohair mattress.

Sherlock turned onto his side, so that they faced one another.  “Did you want me to turn the lights out?” he asked.

“No, I may as well see what I’m getting.”  And there was nothing left for her to hide. There wasn’t an inch of her time-worn body that he hadn’t seen, kissed and caressed. “Oh, love…” She kissed his lips. Sometimes she would look at him and think that his finely sculptured mouth was as prefect as a Renaissance marble, but it wasn’t.  There was a snag of dry skin on his lower lip and a shadow of stubble over his upper one. Flawed. Human. Alive. Her Sherlock. 

He kissed her back; deeply entwining their tongues and sliding his foot over her calf. Sherlock tasted fresh and clean, toothpaste and that fancy aftershave he wore just because she adored it. Martha reached for the buttons of his pyjama top, little hard circles of fake pearl that resisted her questing fingers. She tugged impatiently and the top one took flight.

“Naughty,” Sherlock muttered into her neck.

“It couldn’t have been sewn on properly.” Martha giggled. “Stop it, that tickles.”

He fastened his lips onto her throat. Dear god, that was going to leave a mark.  “Stop it,” she murmured again. Martha petted his hair, not making even a half-hearted effort to dislodge him.  She renewed her attack on the stubborn buttons and when his pyjama top fell open she ran her hand over the plains of his chest. His heart beat under her hand for a moment and then she moved it up to tweak his nipple. It was as tight and hard as hers were.

Sherlock pressed into her hand and then drew back so that he could look at her. “Such a naughty girl.” He touched the shoestring strap that had slipped halfway down her arm.  “Look at you with your clothes all falling off.”

Damn. He had done it to her again. She bit her lip, but colour still flared into her face and he laughed delightedly.  Another heat rose inside her. She was certain that it was a glorious sin to want him so much at her age. Still it beat sitting in a rocking chair with her knitting. Martha ran her finger down his breastbone. “Hark who’s talking.” She tried to peel the pyjama jacket off his shoulders, but the angle was awkward and he had to sit up to discard it.

“This too,” he said and Martha lifted her arms so that he could pull the peach-pink nightie over her head.  Then it only remained for him to kick his pyjama bottoms off before he lay down again. 

Their naked bodies melded together. Martha draped her leg over his and Sherlock lowered his head to her breasts. His erection nudged against her thigh and he slipped his hand between her legs. He stroked her vagina maddeningly slowly, intent on making her whimper and writhe.  Martha gasped and locked her legs around his hand.  She clenched her thigh muscles. “Got you,” she whispered laughingly.

“Am I complaining?” Sherlock flexed his fingers. “I could do this for hours.  You’re so soft…so warm…” He kissed her, lazy and lingering and suddenly with fierce passion.

“You couldn’t you know,” said Martha between kisses. She reached for his cock. Martha ran her hand down over his balls and then up again to enclose him in her hand.  “This is far too impatient.”  Martha moved her hand quickly and his cock jerked. She grinned when he moaned. “I’ve still not lost the knack then.”

Sherlock licked her earlobe and blew into her ear. “Open your legs and you’ll find out.”

 She was only too willing to acquiesce, but to her surprise Sherlock stopped when the tip of his erection pushed against her vagina.  “What’s the –“

“Hush.” He clasped her head in his hands and made an effort to control his breathing. “Just listen to me, Martha…”

“And people say that I talk too much.”  She rubbed his back. His skin was damp and his muscles trembled. “Tell me later, love.”

“No, now.” Sherlock tilted his head so that they were looking directly at one another. “I want you to listen and I want you to believe me.  There will never, ever be anyone else. You’re the only woman in the world for me.”  The intensity of gaze held her transfixed until he shuddered and buried his face in the curve of her neck.  “I couldn’t live without you.”

Martha went very cold. That whisper torn from the depths of his soul frightened her.  The thought was so ridiculous that it was like running slap-bang into a wall of impossibility, but it wouldn’t go away. “Sherlock, you won’t do anything silly, will you? I mean afterwards, when I’m not here.”

“No, of course not.”

The answer was too quick and too glib, and she knew him too well.  Sherlock was quite capable of arguing that anything he chose to do after her death was perfectly logical and not ‘silly’ at all.  Martha held his face in her hands, letting her thumb nails press into his cheeks. “Promise me. Promise me that you won’t …kill yourself or go back on drugs or anything like that.”

“Okay.”  Sherlock didn’t quite meet her frantic gaze and his sullen reluctance alarmed her even more. “Forget it, Martha. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did and now you have to promise me!” She shook him with a strength born of desperation. “How the hell am I supposed to face what I’m going to have to go through…how the hell can I die knowing that you…” Martha turned her face into the pillow, weeping bitterly. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her shoulders, neck, hair and face. “I’m sorry.  I promise.” He prised her hand off the pillow and griped it between both of his own. “I promise, Martha.”

“You had better bloody well mean it!” She rolled over onto her back.  He looked contrite and she realised that he too had been crying. “Say it again, Sherlock.”

He held her hand to his damp face and she felt fresh tears trickle over it. “I promise that after…after you die I won’t commit suicide or seek solace in drugs or booze or…” His lips quirked into a parody of a smile. “I’ll be a good boy.”

 “See that you are.”  Martha opened her arms and he collapsed into her embrace. 

“I just wanted you to know that you’re irreplaceable,” said Sherlock. “I didn’t intend to upset you or to cast a shadow over our special day.”

“It’s better that it’s all out in the open.” She clutched his hand. “And I do believe you on both counts.”  Martha knew it deep inside, in a place that she might have called her soul if she had been a religious woman.  Sherlock would survive and he would not enter into another relationship.  She was utterly thankful for the first and distressed by the second.  Martha could hardly bear to think of Sherlock being lonely and isolated.  It wasn’t what she wanted for him, but she didn’t want to be old and ill either. If there was a god, an all-seeing, all-knowing power at the heart of the universe, then he didn’t give a damn for what Martha Holmes wanted. 

_Do not go gentle into that good-night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day._

“I love you.”  She embraced Sherlock and covered his mouth with hers.  This was her time and it was their wedding night. 

He kissed her back, an unrestrained pressure of lips and tongue.  They rolled over together, locked in each other’s arms. Martha grasped his shoulder with one hand and buried the other in his hair. She loved the silky curl of it around her fingers. Sherlock cupped her face in his hands and laid a stream of kisses across her forehead and cheeks. He dropped a kiss onto her nose and rubbed his against it. They both giggled. 

Sherlock’s feather-soft fingertips glided over her across her face, over her neck and down into the cleft between her breasts. She smiled up at him and ran her hands over his shoulders and biceps. Martha craned her neck and kissed the dark chocolate spot mole on his throat.   He clasped the back of her head and his muted gasp urged her on to greater wickedness.  She let her teeth graze his neck and applied pressure with her lips, marking him as hers.  It was a foolish, teenage thing to do and yet she was absurdly proud of that little circle of purple skin.  Martha kissed the dark patch tenderly and sought his mouth again. 

His thigh slipped in between her legs and pressed firmly against her vagina. She wriggled and rocked into the pressure and he chuckled close to her ear.  Sherlock grasped her hip and pulled her even closer.  Her murmur of delight brought a grin to his face.

Sherlock kissed her parted lips. “I love the noises you make when you’re about to come…” A long ecstatic shiver rippled through him and his cock twitched against her stomach.  “And the look of bliss on your face when you do.”

“I’m not…oh, god.”  He had pressed his fingers in between his thigh and her vagina. “You bastard!” 

Her indignation only made him laugh again. He petted her clitoris. “Almost, Martha, almost.”

 Oh, heavens he was right, the smug git. She stretched her spine and pressed up into his hand. “I’ll give you almost…” 

Martha reached down, intent on retaliation, and rubbed her palm over the weeping head of his erection. It was a very sweet revenge.  Sherlock moaned when she squeezed him and shuddered when she stroked his frenulum. There was a fiery flush on his chest and neck.  His hand faltered between her legs and she caught his right nipple in her teeth. 

“Such a naughty girl,” he whispered ardently. 

She gave him one final nip and then kissed where she had bitten. “Well, if you can’t do better than almost…”

Sherlock rolled her onto her back and mounted her in one fluid motion. They kissed and she let her thighs fall eagerly open.  His cock rubbed on her mound and nestled in the pale curls of her pubic hair before he adjusted the angle slightly.  Then it bumped tantalisingly against her damp vagina.

“Love you,” Sherlock murmured and he pushed forward.

Martha sometimes thought that this was the best moment of all; the slide of his body into hers and comforting, erotic fullness. Death could not take her now, not when she was so alive and so loved.  Grounded in the physical and anchored to her beloved husband. 

His lips curved into an adoring smile.  Then he groaned and his eyes closed, dark lashes fluttering as he breathed heavily through his mouth.  Martha struggled to keep her eyes open.  She wanted to watch the play of emotions over his face as well as to feel his cock moving inside her.  To see how the pale skin on his upper arms bloomed scarlet around her clutching hands.  Her nails left a thin scratch of blood there. It shone in the lamplight when she lowered her hands to his hips. 

Desire built, piling sensation on sensation and she gave up the battle for the visual.  A strand of his hair brushed her closed eyes and she reached up to tuck it away. She felt his soft skin and the pulse that beat wildly there.  They kissed with such intensity that she felt her lip break and bleed under his, but she welcomed the pin-prick sting when he licked away the shining droplet of crimson. 

Martha wanted to tell him that she loved him. Only lust had stolen her breath away and turned her words to whimpers that echoed his moans.  The passionate jolting thrust of his hips carried her towards inevitable orgasm.  Close now, so very close and his movements were ever more rapid and broken. 

Sherlock groaned. “Love…” he said and he climaxed; wedged tightly inside her with his whole body shaking and her name shattered on his lips.

Martha arched up into the last spasms of his release and the first sharp, sweet contraction claimed her. She cried out and clung to him as her body split asunder. 

It could not last for long, but that moment when she felt foolish and self-conscious evaporated in the tenderness of his embrace.  A breathless laugh rippled between them. Martha rested her head on his chest and Sherlock stroked her hair gently.

“I love you,” he whispered and she was utterly content. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a happy ending you may be well advised to stop reading here. 
> 
> However, I'm posting one more short chapter and an epilogue at the same time as this chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All along I've tagged this story with 'Love and sex but not death' because I never intended to write Martha's death scene.
> 
> Then I realised that it would be letting the story down not to. So this short chapter is love and death and... euthanasia because I always knew that Sherlock would never let Martha suffer too much.

Sherlock had wrapped her up in a duvet and carried her outside to see the fireworks on New Year’s Eve.  Martha hadn’t left the house since. The final days of her life were bounded by her bedroom walls, but she was thankful not to be in hospital. She wanted to die at home with Sherlock at her side.

Mycroft had arranged for private nurses to come in four times a day so that Sherlock didn’t wear himself to a frazzle looking after her. Martha was more than grateful for that.  She had hated to see the haggard, haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes, the one that came of too much stress and too little sleep. It had filled her with guilt and self-loathing. All the more so because she knew that her failing health had made her self-centred and cantankerous. After one spectacular argument had reduced them both to tears she had offered brokenly to go into a hospice.  

Sherlock wouldn’t hear of it, so they coped the best they could; taking one day at a time whether it was good or bad. Only now all the days were bad. The good was in the past; in the celebration of their six month wedding anniversary, done in style because they realised that it was the only one they would ever have.  The American wonder drug had stopped working soon afterwards and her rapid decline had begun.

 Martha shifted feebly on her pillow. The pain was knife-sharp and unrelenting. “Sherlock?”

“I won’t be a minute.” 

He was in the kitchen, making her a drink she didn’t really want.  It was so difficult for her to swallow now that it just didn’t seem worth the effort.  What she wanted was for the morphine to kick in and blunt the edge of her agony.  Martha bit her lip, but she couldn’t help whimpering.  “Sherlock, please…”

“Two seconds.”

She shouldn’t nag, but she was always so frightened whenever he was out of her sight.  Martha picked anxiously at the bedcover and her gaze flitted from one uninteresting object to another. Their Christmas cards were still blu-tacked to the wall.    Mycroft had called in briefly on Christmas Eve morning and John had gone off to Sophie’s in the afternoon.

“Now it’s just us and the tree,” Sherlock had joked. 

It was a lovely tree. The scent of spruce had filled the room and the child in her had been enchanted by the shimmering, multi-coloured lights.  Those precious, quiet days they had spent together over the holiday had been the last dregs of good.  On Boxing Day they had made love very gently for what they both knew was the final time.

It was one more special memory for her to hold onto, if only the pain would stop ripping her to shreds.  The morphine injection the nurse had given her hadn’t touched it at all and she was too exhausted to even wail anymore.  Martha hid her face in the pillow and the tears ran wearily down her cheeks.

Sherlock touched her shoulder as if she were breakable porcelain and even that hurt.  “Isn’t it any better at all?”

“No.” She managed to turn around to face him, but the movement made her want to scream. 

Someone else might have offered to call the doctor, but Sherlock didn’t. There was nothing that a doctor could or would do to ease her suffering.  “What can I do for you?” he asked instead.

Martha crumpled and clutched his hand. Pain burnt through her and she shrieked.  Sherlock stroked her hair back off her forehead.  Anything but the tenderest of caresses would only make things worse. 

“Make it stop. Please, Sherlock… please just make it stop.”

“You know that I will.” He sounded so calm and kind. “I have to nip into the kitchen, just for a moment, sweetheart.“

Martha didn’t want to let him go, but trust won out over terror and he seemed to be back in no time at all. Sherlock sat on the edge of her bed and laid the syringe carefully down on the bedside cabinet.

She rubbed her sore eyes. “What is it?”

 “Morphine.”

“It won’t work!”

“Yes, it will.” He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek.  “I tripled the dose.”

Martha stared at the glistening point of the hypodermic needle. He hadn’t been making tea in the kitchen. He had been preparing this. For her.  It would soothe away all her pain. Forever.

 She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Will you get into trouble?”

“Do you think I…” Sherlock swallowed convulsively.  “There’s no reason to suppose that I will and Mycroft will see me right if there are any awkward questions.”

Martha knew that was true. “What about your birthday?” It was only two days away, but she didn’t think that she could endure this excruciating pain for another forty-eight hours.

“It’s not important.”  Sherlock touched his lips to hers. “You’re the only thing that matters to me now.”

She understood. He loved her enough to let her go. Yet it was so hard to think clearly through the fog of agony and emotion. Her gaze went back to the hypodermic and fear gripped her.  Martha whimpered, but she knew that she’d lost her battle against the inevitable. “I’m giving up, aren’t I?”

“You’ve put up one hell of a fight. Look how you confounded that doctor who gave you six months.” There was a glint of pride in Sherlock’s eyes

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”  It was almost a victory. Martha didn’t know whether it was the American drug or sheer bloody mindedness, but she had lasted ten and a half months. She might have just scraped eleven. The doctors had told Sherlock that she had about another fortnight to live.  But they had also started to talk about sedating her once the morphine failed.  She couldn’t really see much difference between being in a drug induced coma and being dead, so she might just as well get it over with.

Martha found enough strength to sit up a bit against the vast bank of pillows. She supposed that it would be grotesque to ask for her lipstick. It was days since she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, but she had been all ashen skin stretched over sharp bone.  Her body was dying. It couldn’t sustain her anymore.

“I don’t want to leave you, love, but I’m so very tired and I hurt so much. I…I don’t think that there’s any point in prolonging this.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed and tears clung to his lashes. Then he blinked them away. “There’s my brave girl.”

“I don’t feel very brave,” she whispered.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Sherlock reached for the syringe, clenched his fist to stop it shaking and then picked it up.  “You’ll just…just sleep. It’s time for you to go, sweetheart, to be free of all the fear and all the pain.”

“Don’t cry.” She wiped away his tears. “You’re right, it’s time. I’m an old woman and I’ve had my life. I just wish that I could have had more of it with you.” 

“Oh god, I…” Sherlock took a harsh, shuddering breath. “Let’s get you comfortable first.”

“I’d do it myself… to spare you, but I don’t know how.”

Sherlock found the ghost of a smile for her. “It’s one advantage of being an ex-junkie.”

For all his expertise it took two attempts for him to find a vein in her withered arm, but she never felt the needle go in at all. When he withdrew it Sherlock lowered his head and kissed the tiny puncture wound.  He helped her to turn onto her side and lie down.  Sherlock pulled the bedcovers up around her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you.”  The pain had already started to ebb and she was getting very drowsy.  It was far too much effort to open her eyes, but she could feel Sherlock’s hand in hers. “I love you.”

His lips brushed over hers in the gentlest of kisses. “I love you. Good-night, my sweet Martha.”

She was twenty-five and the jukebox was playing, _Love, love me do. You know I love you._ Sherlock took her hand and drew her away from Henry, out onto the sunlit pier where he put his arms around her and kissed her tenderly.

And Martha smiled even though she knew that it was only a dream.

 


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more short piece because this was always Sherlock's story just as much as it was Martha's.

Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbours knock and  
borrow,  
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—  
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow  
There's this little street and this little house.

_Ashes Of Life - Edna St. Vincent Millay_

Sherlock changed after Martha died.

That was what John told people, succinctly and in a tone that invited no more questions.  The clients still came despite the unsympathetic, vitriolic sarcasm because Sherlock was bloody brilliant at what he did. If he couldn’t solve your problem then nobody could. Only your problem had better present an intriguing conundrum or he wouldn’t take your case. Crying on the pavement or offering him ridiculous sums of money wouldn’t cut any ice.

John had heard the word ‘bastard’ on the lips of a few frustrated would-be clients as they slammed out of Baker Street.  It was a badge that Sherlock wore with a perversity of pride. He cultivated his reputation for heartlessness, for cold unfeeling disinterest.  Sometimes his lack of empathy infuriated John, but he still stayed down in 221A with Sophie because Sherlock needed him.

Because there were times when the icy façade slipped to reveal the raw pain underneath.

Two days after Martha’s funeral Muriel rang, hysterically demanding to know how she had died.  Sherlock snatched the phone out of John’s hand. “She stopped breathing,” he snarled and then he slammed the receiver down.

“That was a bit cruel,” said John quietly. “She was her sister after all.”

Sherlock leant on the desk with his back bowed and John thought for a moment that he was finally crying. “I told her the truth. Morphine suppresses respiration and Martha was too frail to withstand the massive overdose I gave her.  She just…stopped breathing.”

“I thought that it must have happened like that.” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It couldn’t have been easy for you.”

Sherlock stood up straight and took a deep breath. “I need to go over to Belvedere and examine those dog tracks before the rain washes them away.”

 End of conversation. End of emotion. Until the next time.    

Thanks to Sherlock’s tireless efforts they finally apprehended the man responsible for the twins’ murders three weeks after Martha’s death. The suspect, perhaps thinking that he had nothing to lose, taunted Sherlock about his dead old lady and nearly lost his life. It took both John and Lestrade to pull an enraged and out-of-control Sherlock off him before he beat the man to death.

“Calm down!” yelled John. He shoved Sherlock up against the side of the police car. “Martha wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Martha…” Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and he struggled to master his emotions. “Martha doesn’t even know that she ever existed.” 

He pushed past John and marched away with his coat wrapped tightly around him.

There were other moments, rarer still, when John got a glimpse of the compassionate man Martha had loved.  When Sophie gave birth to their first child he was the proudest father in the world. The moment they got home from the hospital John took the two day old boy up to 221B to show him to Sherlock.

Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment He barely glanced at the precious bundle in John’s arms.

John stepped firmly into his path. “Well, what do you think of my son?”

“It’s a baby, John, just like millions of others that are born every day.”  Sherlock’s expression softened. He brushed the back of his index finger over the baby’s petal soft cheek. “He’s beautiful. Martha would have doted on him.”

The children were one of the chinks in Sherlock’s armour. After John’s second son was born Sophie said that she wanted a home of her own, that they couldn’t possibly bring up two children in a one-bed roomed basement flat.

“Stay,” said Sherlock and he let them spill over into the sanctum that had been Martha’s flat rather than lose them.

When Sophie left him two years later John stayed on. He and Sherlock rubbed along just fine most of the time. After a few weeks John moved back into his old bedroom at the top of the house.  His boys had the downstairs rooms when they came to stay at weekends and John eventually persuaded Sherlock to rent out 221A.

Time gathered pace. Sherlock was forty, then fifty and eventually sixty. Debonair and with a shock of white hair he could still turn young girl’s heads in the street. John complained that he looked like an old age pensioner and that it wasn’t fair when Sherlock wasn’t interested anyway.

“There was only ever one woman for me.” Sherlock’s gaze rested on the photo of Martha that always stood on his desk.

He never talked about her much. Not until years later when old age started to unravel his brilliant mind. Then he talked about Martha a lot and always in the present tense. John let him be when he realised that there was no kindness in medicating him out of his illusions.

“I know she’s dead,” Sherlock told him once in a rare moment of clarity. “Yet I still see her sometimes. She’s smiling with the sun on her hair and the sea at her back, and it makes me happy even though I know that it’s only a dream.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. I feel both relieved and sad that I've come to the end of their story. 
> 
> Thank you for the the comments and kudos and above all else thank you for reading.


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